Afraid
by Jaya Mitai
Summary: Collection of the Gotei 13. Current manga spoilers. Features Gin:Aizen, Ukitake:Kuchiki Byakuya, Matsumoto:Hinamori:Hitsugaya, Unohana:Minatzuki, Urahara:Kurosaki Isshin, Isshin:Ichigo, Kenpachi:Shuuhei:Komamura:
1. Ichimaru Gin

Ichimaru Gin was afraid.

That was what it really boiled down to, if he thought about it long enough. Not that he often did. The brief moments he could pause for internal reflection had to be taken extremely carefully, and spent in consideration of far more important things than the source of his strength.

Everything he needed to know about fear, he did. He knew it as intimately as a soul could know an emotion, more deeply than Yamamoto knew wisdom or Byakuya knew loneliness. He had looked at and experienced it from all the angles his mind could grasp. He knew that a simple coiling of his reiatsu could paralyze a person, that his easy manner, very slightly altered by the tilt of his head, would seem threatening. He knew that his way of speech forced those around him to reconsider him at every turn, that his crinkled eyes and permanent smile kept him on the high ground of every intellectual battle he had ever engaged.

He knew it because he had been using it since he could remember.

Centuries had passed in that world, and he had known fear.

Some tiny particle of his soul thought he might find a change, here.

He supposed, all things considered, it had been hope. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't quite purge it from his soul. In teasing Kuchiki Rukia, he had at least found comfort that this seemed as difficult for them as it was for him. Without hope, he could simply make the next victory, and the one after that. Each sealed his safety until the next, and without hope, he would be reduced to merely concern for his safety.

Ichimaru Gin was afraid of death.

He, unlike some of the others, knew what it meant. Being born again. Without this power, this understanding.

Without fear.

Because he would be too stupid to be afraid.

But here in Hueco Mundo, would he really be born again?

One day, he was sure he would know.

And he already knew how he would learn.

Gin remained motionless on the landing, watching the stairwell and the hall below him. They hadn't noticed him yet; he had learned to mask his reiatsu long before being taken in by the Academy. He'd had to, to keep her from following him.

He supposed that part of his soul must have been love.

Love, like hope, was something he couldn't seem to part with. It was too scary. Others drew their strength from love, more strength than his. Ukitake came to mind. That was one shinigami he would prefer to arrange an Arrancar met on the battlefield. One shinigami that could hold his own, however temporarily, against Yamamoto.

Another shinigami that drew his strength from something Gin wasn't sure he would ever know.

He supposed, if he'd been less afraid, Rangiku would have taught him. She was more than willing. She'd been possibly the easiest mark he'd ever found, and instead of manipulating her like so many others, instead of fearing her, he'd . . . felt something else. Something terrifying. Something that weakened his resolve to the point of retreat, time and time again.

It wasn't walking away. It was retreating. She just didn't seem to understand the difference.

Like the others, she didn't seem to understand much. Until you looked at her eyes.

That was why he hid his. Not that this had prevented Zaraki Kenpachi from reading him like a bared scroll. But there was no one Kenpachi didn't know, down to their soul, like that hidden eye of his gave him some weird perspective on souls that no one else but Tousen could know. Zaraki knew Gin's eyes were stained with blood, so hiding them from the giant didn't matter so terribly. He'd kept up the illusion anyway, if only to keep the remainder of the 11th division as confused as the rest of Soul Society.

It was odd, that Kenpachi could so instantly and clearly see what even Aizen-sama could not.

And that he could see something Tousen refused to.

In the blind man's little world, so long as Aizen was right, his conscious was clear. With Aizen in total control, a man who would not slaughter millions for the pleasure of killing, but an intelligent man, an oddly consistent man, there would be peace. Aizen would enforce it with an iron hand. Aizen would crush rebellions before they could begin, and he would make keeping the peace of his kingdom the source of his happiness, the center of his focus.

Joining all three worlds into one, forcing all beings to exist in the same space, to exist and flourish and thrive and show him what powers he could create from them. It was the creating part that really had Aizen-sama's attention, though Gin wasn't sure Tousen saw it that way. All the blind man could see was a promised land where there was no fighting, no squabbling, no petty politics and careless remarks.

Aizen-sama would not permit it.

And so Tousen chose not to see that the Arrancars were no different than the shinigami, and the Espada quarreled and fought as often as the Gotei 13. Oh, the Grimmjow incident, he supposed, had forced Tousen's eyes a bit more open than the ebony man may have liked. But he hadn't realized he was being manipulated. Tousen had rationalized it as Aizen-sama's manner in order to get the Espada to do his bidding. Likely Tousen felt Aizen would sacrifice most of the Arrancar in the one, epic battle that could not be avoided. Likely Tousen had reasoned that this was Aizen's way of placating them, but that they had no role to play in the world that would follow.

It was likely Tousen was going to be sacrificed in that battle. And likely that he would be, as well.

But he would go into that battle with his eyes open.

Because once that one plan came to pass, he would not be reborn.

He could not die.

There was a chance, in Hueco Mundo, that if he died, his freed essence would return to the real world and be born again. If all three worlds were combined, if Aizen was able to strip away the barriers that protected the other worlds from Hueco Mundo, there would be no recycling. No rebirth. No death. For anyone. All souls would continue to exist for there would be nowhere for the essence, freed from the soul's body, to escape.

Gin allowed his smile to become a little more genuine, a little more amused. It was amusing. It was foolish to believe that Aizen-sama really couldn't see through his many deceits. It was probably why Aizen-sama had trusted him as far as he did. He could trust Gin to play all the sides until the very end. Aizen-sama knew that above all, Gin would not allow himself to be killed. And Aizen-sama knew that if he put Gin into a dangerous situation, that he would try with all his might to survive that situation at any cost. Those costs had been Hinomori-chan, Hitsugaya-chan. They'd been Unohana-taichou, Isane-fukataichou. They'd been Kuchikis Rukia and Byakuya.

They'd been all the people that he'd managed not to kill.

And for the life of him, he couldn't figure out why.

He'd sensed Byakuya, even if Aizen-sama had somehow not noticed. Nor had Aizen noticed the approach of that ryoka Ichigo. They were beneath his notice. He who could catch the attack of a bankai with a single finger. There wasn't a captain-class shinigami in all of Soul Society, at that point, that had not exhausted half or more of their strength in the other, pointless fights Aizen-sama had engineered. But Aizen-sama had shown his weakness by his failure with kidou.

Or perhaps Aizen-sama, like Gin himself, couldn't end them either.

Or perhaps that was part of the illusion as well.

Aizen had failed to kill Unohana-taichou when he'd had the chance. She was one of the few captains at that time that had been weakened, due to her healing all the injuries the first manipulations – and the ryoka - had produced. But perhaps Aizen had learned to trust Kenpachi as well. Despite his giant reiatsu, the taichou of the 11th division had never challenged Unohana. He'd gone out of his way to avoid any situation in which he could appear to be backing down, as well.

Then again, it could be argued Kenpachi had a soft spot for women, considering he'd inexplicably picked up an infant girl on his way to the Seireitei. His inability to control his spirit pressure had caused that poor infant to develop into the most frighteningly powerful child Gin had ever seen. Kenpachi's spirit pressure might also explain why so many of the top-seated 11th division had had huge increases in strength and ability since joining that division.

But it also gave the giant ridiculous power, and his own mind gave him a love of fighting. He would fight females if they gave him a reason or looked like they could take a little abuse. If Kenpachi actually put forth effort to avoid fighting Unohana . . . and really, her shikai was one of the most powerful in Soul Society.

Some might argue Minatsuki was almost as powerful as Kyouka Suigetsu.

And failure to kill her virtually guaranteed that few if any of the captains, even if significantly wounded, would be allowed to die. By sparing her, he had certainly increased the number of his enemy. She had also been the only shinigami that seemed to be aware of the hypnosis, or at least detect a flaw within it.

There were many reasons Aizen-sama might have spared Unohana, but only one rang true: fear. He was afraid that he would not be able to deceive her in battle, and that he would not be able to finish the fight, even with her weakened, without taking injury. An injury at that point would have made his taking of the Hougyoku and subsequent escape significantly less impressive.

And it was absolutely critical that Aizen-sama appear untouchable as he left. He really could not have planned it better.

Aizen-sama was not nearly as powerful as he had appeared in his last moments in Soul Society. He could never have withstood Komamura's bankai if the fox-headed captain had not already been weakened by his fight with Zaraki. Nor could he have repelled Abarai's Zabimaru as easily if the fukataichou had not already sustained significant injuries. And it was astonishing the son of Kurosaki Isshun had even been standing, let alone capable of forcing his Zangetsu into bankai, so it was no wonder that a fully rested captain-level shinigami could repel his attack, no matter how swiftly it came.

All Soul Society had seen was that Aizen-taichou was attacked by several captains, using zanpaktous in their final form, and had not even broken a sweat. It could be argued that he had allowed Yourichi and Soi Fon to apprehend him, though Gin knew better.

Aizen-sama had not sensed them coming. He hadn't sensed any of them coming.

His strike against Byakuya was just as lucky, and just as awe-inspiring. If Kurosaki Ichigo had not already exhausted the 6th division captain, he would have been able to snatch Rukia and dodge Shinsou without so much as a scratch to his haori.

And the menos arriving in just the nick of time . . . yes, it could not have been planned any better.

He could not have done a better job himself of instilling fear of Aizen-sama into the very heart of Soul Society. They witnessed unparalleled strength and unheard-of talent that day. Aizen-sama had borrowed his very own technique of relaxation and casual speech to explain away his failures with kidou, and there was no doubt it had been effective. Those that witnessed everything would say that Aizen hadn't even been fully engaged in combat, that it was sheer luck his lack of interest in the battle had resulted in no deaths.

No deaths. No elimination of the enemy.

Their spies had communicated that much. Hinamori-fukataichou and Hitsugaya-taichou lived. Byakuya-taichou and Renji-fukataichou lived. Even the ryoka Ichigo-kun had survived. People Aizen-sama himself had identified as dangerous.

So much went wrong, and yet the ending felt so complete.

They had what they wanted.

They had the Hougyoku. And all the shinigami lived.

He'd see her again.

But not according to the plan. Half the captains would have been dead, ideally. That would have forced Urahara Kisuke right back into Soul Society, even if Yamamoto had had to send Shunsui and Ukitake both to bring him. Doubtlessly he was working to end their plot and was in communication with Soul Society, but with him hiding in the real world, locating the ex-taichou without casualties was going to be a pain.

He was a problem. But he wasn't the biggest problem.

The biggest problem was Hitsugaya, whether Aizen-sama wanted to admit it or not.

Gin's smile widened at the idea that Hitsugaya-kun was a big problem. He was actually short even for his age, and he was barely more than Gin himself had been when he'd run into Matsumoto. But he was ridiculously powerful. Too powerful. He was still young enough to be earnest, but his resolve and wisdom were far too advanced for his age, no matter what experiences he'd had in the real world. It didn't help that he'd sworn so seriously to kill both Aizen-sama and Gin himself, for the same crime.

Maybe he was the guardian said to be sent, the one out of mythology. Mythology had a nasty habit of being based in fact. And depending on how true it was, there was no guarantee that the small captain would be affected by the same limitations of other shinigami. That young prodigy might very well have figured out a way to access exactly the same sorts of powers Aizen-sama was certain could not be obtained without Hougyoku.

It would be as though the boy had a Hollow inside of him.

And the weird darkness in the reiatsu the Kurosaki boy had flared off during his fight with Byakuya . . . it was almost the same darkness he felt when he looked at his end.

The one that would ultimately kill him.

The one that would ultimately make a move to stop Aizen-sama.

The one that had no chance of succeeding.

The one that stood so sadly at the foot of the stairs, his back to Gin, as he listened to the pointless rantings of one of his fellow Arrancar.

The one that was not afraid.

It was some other emotion that he knew well. He assumed fear and shyness instead of ease and smiles, he spoke formally and softly rather than familiarly, and he knew it as well as Gin knew fear. It wasn't love, it wasn't justice, it wasn't any emotion Gin could identify.

But knowing it so completely, Gin had seen that the instant he'd laid eyes on the Arrancar.

They were two of a kind.

That was also probably why Aizen-sama trusted the other man. Aizen-sama understood what drove this man, just as he understood what drove Gin.

That was why he would fail in his attempt to stop Aizen-sama.

That was why, eventually, Aizen-sama would pit them against each other.

And that was why, he knew with a certainty, that this soul was the one that would kill him. Not Hitsugaya, not Ichigo.

It would be Ulquiorra.

They understood one another too well.

He recognized the other Espada, Yami, as the one ranting. For some reason the two seemed to spend time together, more because Yami liked to be a dominate personality and didn't realize that Ulquiorra was manipulating him. The consistent, sad expression, the quiet demeanor, they all caused predictable reactions in all the menos. This period of waiting for Hougyoku's complete awakening was just giving the Arrancar time to learn everything he could about his fellows, before they had to get serious.

After their first encounter, Ulquiorra was giving him a lot of space. Perhaps he realized he'd been made.

Not that it mattered. They both had been made, and Aizen-sama had their number. If he was to survive to see the King destroyed, and the barriers broken, he needed to eliminate Ulquiorra, and he needed to do it soon. There were several ways to go about it, the most attractive of which would be to coax the other Espada into believing their shy compatriot had somehow betrayed them.

Leaking some information to Urahara Kisuke would probably do nicely, since it would be obvious Grimmjow hadn't done it, and they were two of only four of Aizen-sama's minions to have traveled to the real world after their retreat from Soul Society and survived.

Of course, it would mean leaking information to Urahara Kisuke. Who was resigned enough to his fate, and the fate of all of Soul Society, to properly accept the information without seriously fighting. If he knew where the shinigami was, he'd have already passed the information along.

It would even have to be true information. Just something that wouldn't damage Aizen-sama's chances. Possibly information about the ranking of the Arrancar, or information about their zanpaktou equivalents.

And he'd have to do it when Yoruichi was confirmed to be in Soul Society. She would be less likely to be gentle, seeking both the information and his capture. Kisuke would let him walk right out the door, so to speak.

Urahara Kisuke wasn't so different from Aizen-sama. He was just a little more afraid.

And Shihouin Yoruichi was not.

Kisuke would see right through the gesture, so he could count on little goodwill from the exchange. The only gain was Ulquiorra's death. Assuming he did not survive the encounter when his 'duplicity' was revealed. If he did, and Aizen-sama believed him to be innocent, there would be a considerable risk. But surely Aizen-sama had seen through Ulquiorra's actions enough to know the Arrancar had doubts?

And just as surely, he wouldn't mind that Gin had given relatively useless information to protect his own life? Wouldn't Aizen-sama be counting on it? Gin eliminating Ulquiorra before the Arrancar could actually act against him?

Gin's smile slipped a bit, and he started down the stairs. A door had opened, to one of the chambers he had not yet visited, and he knew who had entered the hallway. To dally would be to give himself away, and the last thing he wanted was to give the impression he'd been thinking.

It was very difficult to determine when Aizen-sama was using others, and when he was using him. He was trapped under the illusion of Kyouka Suigetsu the same as the Menos. He wanted Aizen-sama to succeed. That was no doubt truth. He would do everything he could to see that goal realized.

He just . . . seemed to want to do as little damage as possible on the way.

He didn't used to be that way.

And he didn't understand why.

"Yare, yare. So noisy."

Yami glared up the stairs, taking in exactly what Gin wanted him to. Relaxed stature. Crinkled eyes. Wide smile, even showing a little teeth. Fingers and wrist cocked every so slightly towards his zanpaktou. Forcing the Arrancar to wonder if he was inviting attack or not.

It was easy to see, the thoughts flitted across Yami's large, stupid eyes like someone had written them on his corneas. Ulquiorra was not so unguarded. He inclined his head, his eyes seeming to die a little before they were too downcast to read. Everything about him screamed submission.

Until Gin understood what drove Ulquiorra, he would not act against him. At least not until Urahara Kisuke had been found.

"So you crawled out of your hole, Whitey," Yami grunted, his shoulders unconsciously tensing and his chest swelling as he took a deep breath. Preparatory. "So sorry to have disturbed you, taichou. "

Gin allowed his grin to grow. "Now that's an odd spin y'put on my words. It ain't me y'need to be worried about annoyin'."

He allowed his face to tilt a bit more towards the end of the hallway, and eventually Yami got the idea and turned. He obviously hadn't sensed Aizen-sama's reiatsu.

But Ulquiorra had. Only his eyes moved; he kept his body facing equally between them. The angle of his arms at his side, even the horn adoring his Hollow mask, everything indicated deference to the approaching soul. Gin simply projected his smile at Aizen-sama, as though he were merely enjoying the fear and respect Aizen-sama commanded from his subordinates.

The large, brown eyes, free of the filter of glasses, narrowed slightly as his cheekbones rose in a small smile.

"It's alright, Gin. I was already finished."

Fin


	2. Ukitake Jyuushiro

Ukitake Jyuushiro was afraid.

It was more than a little unfamiliar to him, this emotion. There were only a few times in his life he could recall being seriously frightened of anything. Never had it occurred to him to be frightened in battle. He'd long ago cast off any fear or doubt in regards to his life. Life was more fragile than most shinigami realized, it could be snatched away by your next breath. And there was no need to fear pain, it would happen whether or not you were scared of it.

He saved his worry for others, he feared only for his friends.

It had never occurred to him that one day he would find himself fearing one of them.

The delicate china felt suddenly cheap and ceramic between his fingertips, and he took a careful, shallow breath, pulling his eyes away from the terribly changed face in front of him to look down at himself.

The teacup was gone, its pieces finishing their tumble down his folded legs to the woven matt beneath his knees. Only the handle remained, still perfectly shaped and held in a hand that seemed frozen in place. His breath caught very high in his throat, a sure sign of damage to his lungs. The blade had already come and gone, faster than he could blink. Even if he had been expecting the attack he was not certain he would have seen it.

The wound in his chest began to burn, as though he were pouring hot tea into it. Seconds passed, and still all he could do was look at the quickly spreading stain across the white winter kimono, the dark blood mingling with the light tea. Evening had settled in as only pre-spring evenings did, with a swiftness and coldness that indicated it would remain as stubbornly as possible. The lack of light had turned everything to greys and whites and blacks, and hid their movement. Only one breath and yet both stains were already mingling, a tide trying to drown the white of his kimono.

Jyuushiro found his gaze returning to the figure before him. With his breathing so shallow, he wasn't certain he could speak loudly enough to be heard. He wasn't sure the ears of the man before him would even hear his words.

Nothing about Byakuya was recognizable. His reiatsu didn't seem to belong to him. Usually it steady and collected and the strength of a grove of thousand-year-old sakura trees. Now it was hidden, was the air that preceded a violent wind. His young face, usually his arrogant Clan-mask trying unsuccessfully to hide a smile, was fractured, and his mouth no more than a gash across grey skin. Even his eyes, normally the deep purple of plums, were as black and flat as the locks of hair clinging to his face.

His kenseikan and ginpaku kazahana no uzuginu were noticeably absent, further shadowing his features, and his sword was sheathed. Jyuushiro had barely had time to register his presence before it was over.

He took another breath, experimentally, glad that he had been kneeling before the low table taking his tea. His subordinates knew he liked to spend this time alone, in personal reflection, and Kaien-san would have seen to it that he would not be disturbed. But when his reiatsu dipped too low, it would be Kaien-fukataichou that came, and he was no match for Kuchiki Byakuya.

Would the lawful head of the Kuchiki Clan attack him as well?

Yes, Jyuushiro decided, and closed his eyes. He reached out, searching for that tiny piece of spirit pressure that had been steadily decreasing, flickering and fighting the cold of winter –

"Hisana is dead."

Jyuushiro kept his eyes closed. He shouldn't be surprised – it was amazing the woman from Rukongai had held on as long as she had. There had been a great sadness in her the last time he had visited, and a hopelessness in her eyes that told him she had stopped fighting. He had known, as soon as he saw her, that his once-kohai had seen it as well.

Was that what this was about . . . ?

"I am truly sorry, Byakuya." His voice was just above a whisper, but the room was as silent as a tomb.

"The time for apologies has long passed, senpai." The voice was colder than the night air, thick and hollow at the same time.

The pain in his chest grew worse, and Jyuushiro fought the urge to vomit. How could Byakuya have found out? And if he had, why would he attack only after she had died? He would have known that Jyuushiro had no more a cure for Hisana than he had for himself – had Byakuya already slaughtered his own clan? His eyes flew open of their own accord, slightly shocked to see that Byakuya was kneeling in front of him, on the other side of the low table, settled as though they were about to enjoy a pot of tea together. If anyone should look into the room from a distance, they would notice nothing out of the ordinary.

He's going to stay and watch me die, the thought flitted across his mind. Perhaps ensure it if it looked as though they'd be disturbed.

"And . . . you chose to honor her death by playing the assassin?"

A strangled noise came from across the table, but Byakuya didn't answer.

Jyuushiro forced his face up, surprised at how heavy his head had become. It was difficult to remain kneeling at all. He felt himself drop the handle of the teacup, unable to hold his arm out any longer. It clinked mutedly against his fragmented brothers, and as his shoulder dropped the torn muscles crawled beneath his chest, sending a wave of agony radiating down his spine, tightening his voice.

"I thought it would be a mercy-"

"What?" The voice was low and rough and unsteady, not recognizable as a noble's measured tones. Byakuya leaned forward and a stray beam of starlight played across his face, glowing along the tracks his tears had made. His hands braced themselves on the table, unmindful of the shattered pieces of china there. "Death is your concept of mercy?"

Jyuushiro choked, though from the injury, his illness, or his surprise, he couldn't tell. Even as he struggled for breath, Byakuya continued.

"At first I thought it merely an unlucky coincidence, but your continued visits –" His voice broke. "I could not turn them away. She grew weaker, and still you came."

"Byakuya-"

"I believed it was to support us as you had done before, but then Izumari . . ." It trailed into a whisper. "Hisana found it odd, but she did not dare to question my otouto-" The next words caught in his throat, and it took him a moment to gain control of himself again.

"You supported our marriage, senpai. You told me to follow my heart." It was soft. It was vulnerable. It was betrayed.

Jyuushiro tried to stifle a wet cough, and was more than a little shocked by the sensation of it bubbling through his blood out of the wound itself. Bitter blood was pushed up the back of his throat, and when he had partial control of the spasms he found that he had bent double, and his head lay on the tea table, almost between Byakuya's hands. They had curled into fists and pushed hard into the table, he could see them white and trembling with the desire to reach out to him.

But to kill him or to aid him? Never had he seen Byakuya so indecisive, nor seen him display such raw emotion. Anyone else would be bellowing, brandishing their zanpaktou. They might not have let him speak at all. But for Byakuya-sama to kneel before him was so much worse. He meant the gesture to mock the relationship they'd once had rather than honor it. For him to repeatedly use the term senpai. For his voice to break, for tears to glitter openly on his face. For his eyes to so openly express such confusion, such loss, and above all, such hatred –

He leaned into the table as though torn between hauling his senpai over the small wooden slab to him or helping him to lie back.

And now it was painfully clear that Byakuya didn't know. He'd begun to piece it together, but only shattered fragments like the ones that ground into his left temple, cracked pieces of delicate china that could never be reassembled into a whole.

It had never occurred to the head of the Kuchiki clan that they could betray him so completely.

With effort, Jyuushiro tried to lean up, arms shaking with the strain of pushing himself away from the floor. The pain blazed white-hot and he could hear only his own ragged, choking gasps. He was surprised he was still conscious. He was surprised Byakuya hadn't gone for the soul chain, was still allowing him to use spirit pressure. His options were quickly disappearing. Running was out of the question – only Shunsui, Yoruichi and sensei could really keep up with Byakuya at shun-po, and while he could still use the technique, it would buy him nothing. Perhaps threaten more lives. If Byakuya was ready to kill in his pain and loss, there was no telling how far he would go.

He pressed a hand hard to his wound, hoping to get a deeper breath.

Byakuya did not reach for him, but held his gaze with those burning, melting black eyes. "Why, senpai."

Why indeed? He'd already answered that question a thousand times – he could no more cure Hisana than he could cure himself. He wasn't sure how they'd found it, he wasn't even sure it was the same illness. He had no doubt it would have killed him long ago if not for his spiritual pressure and refusal to yield, and the continued treatments he received from the best in the healing arts that Soul Society had to offer. He also expected, as the healing arts drew on the spirit of the one to be healed as well as the healer, that Hisana's treatments were not as beneficial as his were.

Byakuya had gotten her the best treatments that were available, but she simply hadn't the will to fight. It wasn't her nature to fight for things, even things she loved. It was why he had taken Byakuya aside in the first place. If he had not so enthusiastically encouraged Byakuya, almost strong-arming his kohai, the marriage would never have taken place. Byakuya would never have fought his clan so hard for her hand, and had she a fighting will, she never would have let him.

And it was true she would never have challenged Kuchiki Izumari, even if she realized he was giving her the contaminated food. Jyuushiro hadn't known until the damage was done. Until her collapse, she had kept her illness hidden even from Byakuya. It was Kaien-san that had really uncovered the truth, and at that point confronting Byakuya's younger brother would have only resulted in tearing the Clan apart.

"I wanted - to tell you, Byakuya." He tried to keep eye contact as another fit seized him. "But . . . I discovered . . . too late –"

Finally the trembling hands, so long glued to the table, moved. The manicured fingertips ran through Jyuushiro's hair only to catch suddenly, wrenching his face towards the sky. He didn't fight Byakuya, not even when he realized they had moved, somehow, and the young leader of the Kuchiki Clan was somehow above him, looming over him and hiding what he could see of the stars.

"What?"

If only Byakuya had spoken before he attacked. If only he, Jyuushiro, had been paying closer attention. But there was no help for it now. His death would seal the loss. He could see only one way for Byakuya to keep his position as fukataichou and leader of the Kuchiki Clan.

"They – were afraid you would . . . have a child."

He named no names. He offered no more information. He tried his best to still the next wave of spasms as they trembled across his body, and he watched what was left of Kuchiki Byakuya crumble into ashes.

Byakuya seemed to choke on his next breath, his eyes wide and staring without seeing. The hands that held Jyuushiro down so powerfully faltered away like shattered ice as the enormity of what that simple sentence meant slowly sunk in. For a brief moment Jyuushiro thought Byakuya might be shocked enough to simply collapse.

But the reiatsu, which had been hidden so craftily, exploded outwards, accompanied by a cry that he would never have recognized if he hadn't seen the face that released it. Never in his life had he heard such a sound, never had he heard expressed such loss, such betrayal. He was not certain he could even grasp the enormity of the pain Byakuya was in.

It wasn't just to blame only Izumari; the decision had likely been made by the same contingent of the clan that had fought so bitterly against the marriage. Too many for Byakuya to seek revenge upon. Too many that had held him on their knee when he was a boy, too many that had put a comforting hand on his shoulder when he stood at his parents' newly-etched graves. It was why he and Kaien-san had uneasily agreed to remain silent. If Hisana had not mentioned Izumari, if Byakuya had only blamed him for causing his wife's illness -

Kaien-fukataichou was coming.

Jyuushiro reached up then, grabbing the front of Byakuya's ebony robes, resolve strengthening his weakening body. He had lost a lot of blood, the strike had been meant to kill and Byakuya never missed. He pulled the shattered younger man towards him.

"End it here, Byakuya."

Sobs wracked the body in that kimono, and the hands that had lost their strength now coiled around him even tighter, holding on to him rather than holding him down.

"What . . . have I done?"

Jyuushiro couldn't help the next fit, and he turned his face away to avoid coughing his blood onto Byakuya. There was still time, but he wasn't sure Byakuya would be capable of keeping up the façade. He needed to stay conscious, wait for Kaien –

"Tai . . .chou?"

He felt the chest underneath his fingertips stiffen, and he clung even tighter to Byakuya. The pain swelled again, and he retched blood, but he did not slacken his grip. He would die a thousand of these deaths if he could prevent the fall of Kuchiki Byakuya.

"Ukitake-taichou!"

"No, Kaien!" It was rasped and more air across his tongue than his voice itself. Byakuya was struggling with him, somehow both trying to face Kaien and not release his senpai. He simply clung to the front of Byakuya's robes and blinked his clouded eyes.

"It was – my fault, Kaien. My fault," he repeated, swallowing a cough. "Tell him – it was an assassin. Tell . . . him Kuchiki-fukataichou found me – and called you."

Somehow he got a breath, somehow his vision cleared for just an instant. Clear enough to make out Kaien-san's figure at the door, braced in a combat position, his zanpaktou drawn though it was clear Byakuya's was still sheathed. It was too dark to make out his fukataichou's face, too dark for Kaien to even see their eyes.

Kaien-san could not see Byakuya's face. But he had heard the cry. He would understand. He would make the excuses. Sensei would disbelieve him, but Shunsui would convince sensei to respect his wishes.

"No." It was low, and quiet, and fierce. It had not come from his lieutenant.

"K-Kuchiki-fukataichou!"

The figure of Kaien became blurred, either by the speed at which Kaien joined them or the tears that were involuntarily stinging his eyes. He clamped his eyelids tightly to hide them and bowed his head.

"Byakuya . . . please."

"The lies have to end." The young noble's voice still shook, but there was some resolve behind it.

He was going to slaughter his clan.

"Taichou . . . I will summon Unohana-taichou!"

He tried to object, but the breath he took in preparation of speaking, and the angle of his throat, sent him into another coughing fit. He couldn't control it, knowing he was getting blood on Kuchiki's robes, knowing he was incriminating the man. Byakuya was crouching over him, cradling his head into his chest until the coughing subsided, and when Jyuushiro opened his eyes again, Kaien-san was gone.

"Do nothing, Byakuya."

Those purple eyes he knew so well were wet with a fresh set of tears, but the sobs were long gone, replaced with tense muscles. His teeth were bared in a grimace, and there was a splattering of blood across his face. My blood, the thought flickered. Her blood.

"They killed her!" Byakuya's reiatsu was settling quickly into a steady, furious desire to feel flesh cut beneath his Senbonzakura, and while the tears flowed freely down his face, his eyes were flat and cold.

"You – swore to protect them," Jyuushiro ground out. "When your father – died –"

Kuchiki Byakuya had lost everything dear to him. He had lost his beloved wife, Hisana. He had been betrayed by his family, by the very clan he had been born to lead, raised to lead. He had broken the laws he so respected, attacked and gravely wounded his senpai and a captain. His entire foundation was shattered. Jyuushiro would not see the man forsake the oath he had made at his father's deathbed. It was all Byakuya had left.

Jyuushiro forced Byakuya to look at him, even using some reiatsu to ensure he had the noble's attention. "It ends here, Byakuya. It – has to."

"Release him, Kuchiki-fukataichou."

He knew the voice; though young she had the same gentle authority he remembered from Yamamoto, the first time he had been asked to attack his sensei in class. It was the kind of authority one responded to instinctively, automatically, and it was one of the many talents that had helped his once-fellow-student gain the status of captain so quickly. In a battle, in agony, in fear, it was a voice that could force a man to accomplish something he felt he could not.

For his part, it forced him to take another breath, to blink away the film that clouded his vision. It forced locked fists to relax, to release Byakuya's kimono. And it forced the young noble to compose himself, and gently lower him to the mat.

The shift in his posture, no matter how careful, brought with it a flood of blood into his lungs. He refused to yield, trying to keep eye contact with the stunned young man even as Unohana-taichou knelt by his side, her hands glowing slightly blue with her reiatsu. By its light he could see how devastated Byakuya truly was. He had stumbled backwards to make room for the healer, his body moving automatically and without grace. There was blood on his face, on his hands, and in the blue light of the healing arts, it looked as though something deep within his eyes was retreating into oblivion.

Or perhaps that was merely a trick of his own eyes.

Which were somehow seeing only the back of his eyelids.

Jyuushiro jerked slightly, wrenching them back open. He had no memory of closing them. The small movement of his limbs had told him that he was laying on a slightly rough surface, and the gasp that had accompanied it tickled threateningly but did not trigger a coughing fit. Light burned into the back of his brain, but he felt his grasp on consciousness tenuous at best, and settled for narrowing his eyes rather than closing them again.

Someone – Kaien-san, probably – had found and lit the lamps. The chill of the air was muted, and a squint at the doorway revealed only paneled, sliding walls, hiding them from the early spring night. The yellow light of the flames made everything seem warmer, chased away the greys and blacks and dyed the whites ivory. Jyuushiro blinked cautiously, then focused on a somber pair of familiar brown eyes just above his own, with its accompanying eyebrows upside-down.

"Oi. He's awake."

The voice was more than a bit too low to be Unohana's, though a glance to his left found her where he had left her. There was no way to tell how much time had passed.

Enough time for Kyouraku Shunsui to arrive, at any rate.

More awareness seeped into his mind, and Jyuushiro half-leaned up, his eyes darting around the room. Too much time. He hadn't explained everything to Kaien-san, what –

Unohana put a gentle, restraining hand on his shoulder, but it was unnecessary. He had already frozen.

The somber brown eyes that had been above him were now beside him, the lanky man seated comfortably to his immediate right. His odd, common hat was nowhere to be seen, and he wore a simple white sleeping kimono. His long brown hair, usually pulled back and adorned with small red blooms, was loose and partially disguised his expression. It made him look much more at ease than his reiatsu might have indicated.

"Kaien-sama thinks we should kill him," Shunsui began mildly, "because he doesn't trust the 46 to give a noble a fair trial. We managed to convince him to wait, to see what you thought about that."

His stomach clenched, and Jyuushiro felt Unohana move to his left.

"Please lay back, taichou."

But he couldn't. On the other side of the room, where his sleeping pallet would have been rolled out if not for his late visitor, kneeled Byakuya. His zanpaktou, Senbonzakura, was leaned in the corner of the room, well within shun-po distance. But there was no chance of him reaching for it, even if he wanted to. Nejibana lay gently across his throat, and Ukitake had never seen Shiba Kaien look so serious.

It was also readily apparent, from the way Kuchiki Byakuya was holding himself, that he would not have moved even if there wasn't a blade to prevent it. Jyuushiro wasn't sure the noble was even aware of the zanpaktou at all.

He looked back at Shunsui. "Sensei . . . ?"

His friend shook his head. "Not yet."

The hand on his chest became more firm, and without really meaning to, Jyuushiro found himself relaxing, dropping his head back to the pillow he didn't remember being there. The movement pulled across his chest and burned dully, reminding him how close to death he had come.

How had Unohana-taichou gotten there so quickly?

He looked at her questioningly, and her smile was wan. "You no doubt wonder why I was able to tend to your wound so quickly."

"Unohana-fukataichou happened to be in our division house," Kaien supplied, a little tight-lipped. "Isane-fukataichou was worried that Kiyone might be suffering from nightmares, so Unohana-taichou came to speak with her."

He watched her blue-grey eyes and saw something there he didn't like.

Her smile became sadder, but she said nothing.

Jyuushiro allowed his eyes to close briefly. While this was far more of a crowd than he would have preferred, he could trust these people. It wasn't as though Hisana's illness and death would have been a mystery to the Captain of the healing fourth division. Did she suspect, as Byakuya had, that he had inadvertently infected Hisana?

A new thought began to blossom, a disheartening one. Kaien-san might have made the same leap. He was the one that had reported overhearing a conversation between Kuchiki Izumari and Kuchiki Hunamoto. Had -?

No. He would not doubt his fukataichou's words. If Kaien-san had heard proof that the sickness had been inflicted intentionally, then it was truth.

"Release him, Kaien-san."

"Nn," the lieutenant responded, apparently before he could stop himself. "Taichou -!"

Jyuushiro opened his eyes, and turned his head, catching Kaien's gaze. "I told you, Kaien-san. It was my fault."

His lieutenant hesitated a moment more before reluctantly lowering and sheathing his zanpaktou. He kept one hand on the hilt of his Nejibana, and did not move away from the noble.

Kuchiki Byakuya said nothing. Jyuushiro wondered if he'd even said anything at all, and merely surrendered his zanpaktou the moment he had been asked to.

"He's been very quiet," Shunsui confirmed, eyes now fixed on the young noble. "I understand Byakuya-kun's had a very difficult day."

"More difficult than you know," he responded softly. "Byakuya."

No response. His eyes were purple again, quiet and serious and empty. Frighteningly empty. His reiatsu had returned to its normal, steady pulse, but it didn't have quite the same feel about it. His position wasn't submissive; it was the position a noble might take at a meeting amongst the Five Houses, aloof and patient. He was merely waiting.

He was resigned.

Jyuushiro spoke as gently as he could; his voice was rough and still a little weak. "You were right, to follow your heart."

The response was a long time in coming. "You're wrong, Ukitake."

It would have been a slap in the face, if he hadn't known Kuchiki Byakuya as well as he did. It wasn't meant to belittle their relationship – it was meant to distance it.

Shunsui and Unohana remained still and silent, but Kaien's gaze became sharper. Byakuya ignored all of them.

"That path was never open to me from the start."

"Byakuya-"

He finally raised his face, the Clan-mask somehow different. There was no smile fighting to shine through. He wondered if there ever would be again.

"My father told me there was an impassible chasm between those of the Noble families, and those from Rukongai. I had always thought he referred to power."

It seemed to Jyuushiro that everyone in the room was holding their breath.

"I attacked you like a coward, hiding my reiatsu and coming in the dark like an assassin," he continued tonelessly. "For these crimes I should be punished."

A long moment paused in which the very air stilled.

"If that's your concern, think nothing more of it." Shunsui said it dismissively.

Byakuya's breathing caught, but otherwise there was no outward reaction.

It was Kaien that spoke, in confusion. "Kyouraku-taichou . . . ?"

"He has to go back," Shunsui continued simply. "Can you think of any greater restitution that returning to the Kuchiki manor?" His friend's expression was even more somber than usual, and his voice was hard. "He must uphold the oath he swore to the Kuchiki clan-leader before him. He must see those faces, respond to their greetings, share meals with those that have killed his wife. How many centuries do you think will pass before they have all finally disappeared from before his eyes?"

Jyuushiro watched his subordinate slowly grasp the true meaning of Shunsui's words. They were truth. Byakuya could not seek revenge upon his Clan. He could speak to them, indicate to them that he knew what they had done, but they were beyond his reach. There would be no point. He would have to go back, prepare Hisana's funeral arrangements, and bury her in a ceremony attended by her assassins. Then he would have to continue to put his life before theirs, protecting them from swords and words alike. In order to keep his oath, it was his duty to prevent this scandal from ever reaching other ears.

"Well, Kaien-dono?"

The young lieutenant shifted, then dropped his eyes. "I understand, Kyouraku-taichou."

Shunsui nodded to himself, gracefully taking his feet. "Then I don't see any reason to report this matter to Yama-jii or Byakuya-kun's taichou. You, Ukitake?"

He paused, then simply nodded assent.

Shunsui brushed a lock of his curly brown hair out of his eyes, his usual habit when attempting to charm the ladies. "And you, Unohana-chan?"

The matronly young woman smiled, a bit more sincerely this time. "I believe your technique works better with your hat."

Shunsui gaped at her, and Jyuushiro wasn't certain his friend was affecting it.

She turned from him to the silent Byakuya, and bowed her head low. "I am truly sorry that I could not save Hisana, Kuchiki Byakuya. Please accept my heartfelt apology and sympathies."

For a brief moment, something stirred within those eyes, and Byakuya inclined his head.

"Now," and her voice became a bit more stern, "I must ask that all of you leave. I must administer several more treatments and then Ukitake-taichou needs rest."

Kaien-san caught his gaze, and Jyuushiro nodded. "Please extend Kuchiki Byakuya the hospitalities of our division, Kaien-san. His night will be long, and he might appreciate a chance to refresh himself and rest." To wash off the worst of the blood before he returned to his sentence, to enjoy one final meal in peace.

If he could ever find peace again.

Kaien-san bowed his head with hesitation, and waited patiently as Byakuya stood, then strode across the room to where Senbonzakura rested against the wall. He took up his zanpaktou automatically, tucking it into place before turning and surveying the room.

"You are welcome here anytime, Byakuya-fukataichou," Jyuushiro said softly.

Dark purple eyes regarded him for a long moment, and that same something, that tiny piece that was all that was left of the young man he knew, stirred.

Then Byakuya blinked, and it was all but gone.

"You need to rest, Ukitake-taichou."

He walked without a sound across the rice mats, and after a brief, questioning glance at his captain, Kaien squared his shoulders and followed the noble towards the main division house.

Shunsui clucked his tongue. "Yare, yare. I think our friend Kuchiki-kun just became one of those boring, stifling nobles."

Jyuushiro relaxed under the light blue glow of Unohana's reiatsu, but his thoughts remained troubled.

"Unohana-sama," he began, then stopped. There was no point in asking her. There was no point in knowing.

Her eyes were very sad when she met his gaze.

"In truth, Isane-fukataichou was not overly concerned for Kiyone," she confessed softly.

"You suspected that Byakuya might seek retribution for Hisana's death." He didn't phrase it like a question, because it wasn't.

She nodded slowly. "Her illness was not yours, Jyuushiro-sama. If I had thought you might weaken her, I would have spoken to you."

Shunsui clucked his tongue again, and retook his seat on one of the floor cushions. Unohana didn't so much as glance at him, and after a moment he sighed softly and let his shoulders sag.

"Kaien-dono will make a good captain someday."

Jyuushiro turned his gaze to the ceiling, trying to ignore the odd sensation of someone else's reiatsu trying to reorganize his.


	3. Matsumoto Rangiku

Matsumoto Rangiku was afraid.

It was rather silly of her, considering she was still in the Court. It wasn't as though a Hollow could get her here. It wasn't as though it wasn't the training field for all shinigami, those in the divisions or those in the Academy. It wasn't as though she was helpless; Haineko was a familiar weight in her crimson and white obi. And it wasn't as though she weren't the most advanced at shun-po in her class.

It wasn't as though there was a threat out in this empty, dark wood that she couldn't handle, necessarily.

She just wasn't alone.

There was someone standing directly behind her.

She tried not to change her breathing, instead keeping her eyes glued to the golden chain in her hands. Tiny dapples of starlight danced in a slight breeze that tickled the canopy above, and if not for them it would be too dark to even make out the trees. She'd picked a moonless night, of all nights, but the thought of returning to her dormitory without it-

Maybe it's one of the secret police. It would make sense they'd train at night. And technically, she had no business being in the woods at that time of night anyway, so maybe they were just checking her out. Waiting to see if she'd notice.

Because she sure as hell hadn't noticed, until just now, that someone had walked right up behind her.

If she wasn't ejected from the Academy for this, she was going to send Ikkaku to the Fourth Division first aid station in a pail.

And besides the reiatsu-less stranger behind her, she wasn't noticing anything besides moss, and small grasses, and tree roots. Her fingers curled around the chain, the broken link digging lightly into her forefinger.

She wasn't leaving without the other half.

She took a calming breath, hiding the hitch with a growl, as if in frustration. Maybe he wouldn't say anything to her. Maybe he'd just wait until she turned, if she turned. Maybe she could keep whoever it was from noticing her tear-stained face.

Maybe whoever it was thought she was crying from fear. That would give her an advantage – and she'd need it, judging by the height she sensed behind her. Whoever it was, they were too tall to be a woman. She was by far the tallest female in her class, and this shadow was at least four inches above her.

She took another step, as though continuing her search. The presence behind her didn't seem to change distances.

Okay. Waiting was going to be harder than she thought. Perhaps nonchalance was the way to go?

"Are you so bored that you'll follow me all night?"

She sensed a tiny bit of spirit pressure behind her, and froze as the man behind her snorted lightly.

"Matsumoto-san, you cryin'?"

She gasped involuntarily, then used that as an excuse to furtively wipe at her face. The crimson sleeves of her kimono were rough but absorptive.

It was a stranger, all right.

Just one she happened to know.

And she wouldn't be caught dead looking at him with tears on her cheeks.

"No." It didn't come out nearly as angrily as she would have liked. "What do you care?"

"Let me see."

She didn't turn to him, not wanting to see him. She knew he was in the Court. Occasionally they caught glimpses of each other in the hallway.

But he hadn't acknowledged the fact that that morning, he'd left. And he hadn't returned.

He'd come here, instead.

And, like a fool, she'd followed him again.

He stopped hiding his reiatsu, letting it wash over her. It was almost like a familiar, threadbare blanket that didn't keep off the chill, but brought the shadow of warmth with happy memories of the past. She caught him in her peripheral vision as he approached on her left, and he looked over her shoulder, at the hands she clenched to her abdomen.

"Come, Matsumoto-san. It can't be that bad."

And then somehow his hands surrounded hers.

They were warm, soft as they slowly manipulated her fists open. As he peeled her fingers apart she could feel the callouses he had built up in endless hours of practice with Shinsou. She had the same now from Haineko.

He'd never been afraid of hard work. He just didn't see the need to do it himself when there was a chance he could make someone else do it in his stead.

His right arm brushed against hers, and when she looked up, his face was far nearer than she had thought. It was bowed a little lower, almost at her eye-level, and then he held up the broken chain in front of them both.

Ikkaku hadn't even cut it. He'd just caught it with the tip of his zankpaktou and wrenched the links forcefully apart. A cut she could just bend back, but now one end of the chain was completely mangled -

"Ai, that's not so bad, Matsumoto-san."

She fought to prevent an unconscious sniffle, then glared at him. "What are you doing out here?"

He smiled widely, his eyes hidden by the shadows, and let the chain play across his fingers. "Just takin' a walk."

She wanted to ask him if he was going to walk away again.

But before she could do that, he stepped directly in front of her.

She stared at his face, not more than an inch from hers, wondering how she'd let him get so close to her. She was becoming an expert when it came to boys – they were after only one thing and while she was more than flattered that they could notice them beneath the humbly cut kimono, she was usually very protective of her personal space.

The way the starlight fell on him, all she could see was the lower half of his face. Still with the easy smile. She looked away first, back down at the chain he had taken from her, and noticed a flash of gold in his left hand.

He reached out with that hand and touched a finger beneath her chin, lifting up her face to his. There was no wind beneath the trees, not even her breath stirred. She wondered if he could see her face. If he was looking at her like he used to look at her. When he thought she was sleeping, when she wasn't paying attention. When he knew she couldn't look back into his eyes. She knew, she knew he was really looking at her. That if there was more light, she would be able to see his eyes again.

He'd been hiding his eyes for so long, she wasn't sure she really remembered what they looked like.

"Y'don' even need to have it mended."

She stared at him, completely off-balance. "The chain's broken, Gin-"

"No it ain't."

He opened the hand that had remained beneath her chin, raising it to her eyes and rolling his fingers so that an inch and a half separated his forefinger and thumb. And there, between them, was the ring.

She blinked, astonished. He'd been following her for a while, she supposed it wasn't odd that she'd have overlooked it and he'd simply picked it up after she'd walked by-

"Y'didn't think I'd let you lose this, didja?"

She stilled the urge to slap his hand out of her face. Was he trying to be nice, or was he trying to deceive her?

"It wasn't as though I'd lose it," she growled. "Ikkaku and I were sparring and he-"

Ichimaru Gin clucked his tongue. "My, my. That's one young man takin' his life into his hands."

He was definitely mocking her.

She bit back her retort and let him have his laugh. Had Gin seen the match? Once she'd realized what Ikkaku had done, rather than be thankful he hadn't accidentally sliced her throat open she'd gone after him with such force that their instructor had actually yanked Haineko out of her grasp.

He dropped the hand away, satisfied with her expression, apparently, and bowed his head again, showing her the crown of his white hair as his fingers moved deftly in the darkness.

"Why are you out here, Gin?"

He didn't respond, exactly, though he paused in his work. She wasn't sure what he thought he was doing, the chain was broken and she'd need to find a jeweler to mend it for her. It irked her that he had seen her concern over it, considering he'd probably killed someone for it rather than 'finding' it as he'd claimed that morning. So crestfallen when he'd see that it was far too big for her to wear, even on her thumb.

Far too self-satisfied when he'd presented her with a golden chain, just two afternoons later.

Far too happy when he'd seen how pleased the gesture had made her.

It wouldn't have mattered if he had never found a chain. She'd instantly woven a grass loop to hang it on, having to make it thick to support the weight of that ring. It was the fact that he'd thought of her, that he'd brought it for her.

"That hemp made your neck look fat," he'd said carelessly, holding the gold chain out for her to see.

It wasn't something they had needed. It wasn't food or water, shelter or fire. It had been a gift.

And she had been more grateful for that than the fruit that had saved her life.

"I told ya. Out for a walk. Graduated shinigami can do that."

She frowned at the reminder that she was breaking the rules, and if anything, his grin widened more.

"D'you still trust me, Matsumoto-san?"

She blinked, wondering at the slight change of his tone, and he held up the ring, showing that he'd somehow attached the mangled links of the broken chain around the ring itself. It even looked as though it had been mounted that way on purpose.

Then he reached for her throat.

She was frozen. If he had paralyzed her with reiatsu, or kidou, he could not have immobilized her more effectively. He said nothing and moved without hesitation, looping the chain around her neck gently. He had stepped in quite close, and his fingertips brushed her collarbone as he picked up and slid the free end of the chain through the ring.

But there was no way to keep it there, there was no clasp-

Then he reached up his left hand, and gently tugged the collar of her kimono loose.

She could move then. She stopped his hand dead, grabbing his wrist tightly. He didn't fight her, nor did he pull away. Nor did he speak.

Most guys usually started stuttering apologies about then. He didn't. The playful smile never left his face, and with his unbound right hand he dropped the open end of chain down the front of her kimono. It felt warm against her skin, radiated the heat it had stolen from his hands as it snaked into place.

"See? That's what those are for."

She continued to stare at him, shocked, and he slowly lowered his right hand.

He had not just done that –

She had not just let him do that!

Who the hell did he think he was!

She released his wrist with a shove, which of course didn't force him back a single step. It did make him chuckle, and as she withdrew her hand in disgust she accidentally brushed the front of his white kimono.

He looked so pale, in the darkness he might have been a ghost.

"Y'could've held on a little longer," he said softly, "if y'wanted to."

He was far too close to her -

Slowly Matsumoto opened her eyes.

The reiatsu in the room was totally, completely, absolutely wrong.

The ceiling of the 10th division office greeted her, the usual stained wood panels warm and friendly. To her left, the back of the worn red couch gazed down at her, a little admonishingly.

Right.

Rangiku stretched luxuriously, ignoring the sudden, child-like gasp that her movements had elicited from the other person in the room. She felt her lips turn up into a smile. It was as far from the acidic snort she usually heard as it could have possibly been.

"Hn, Hinimori-fukataichou. What brings you to our division at this time of the . . . " She pulled her eyes open, forcing them wide to clear the last of the sleep from them. Bright sunlight was still streaming in.

Damn. No more than an hour to two. She had missed these naps so badly it ached.

" . . . afternoon," she finished, and rubbed the back of her neck, pulling free any hair that might have gotten caught in her kimono.

"M-Matsumoto-fukataichou!" When she finally sat up, she was not surprised to see the diminutive vice-captain of the 5th division caught between thinking of bowing or simply entering the room, and as such, she stood, half-bent at the waist, in the center of the doorway.

"I did not mean to disturb you-"

"Ach. Come in. He's not here," she added, with a trace of amusement.

Hinamori Momo tried not to appear too relieved, and it was all Matsumoto could do not to shake her head.

"Thank you, Matsumoto-kun," she replied softly, and entered on silent feet.

Matsumoto Rangiku watched without watching her taichou's childhood friend – and more, though he didn't admit it. She looked only slightly better than she had in the communication with Yamamoto-sama. There were still bags under her eyes, telling more plainly than her slightly shaking hands of poor sleep. She was definitely thinner, though that could have been due to her long convalescence than any anxiety she was feeling now. After hesitating a moment more, she finally took a seat on the couch's edge, as far from the seating fukataichou of the 10th division as she could get without falling off.

Rangiku briefly considered tickling the other woman into submission. She'd always been very mild, but she'd always had confidence, a sense of self-worth and gave the same gentle impression that she could and would utterly destroy you that Matsumoto often sensed from Unohana-taichou.

Now that was gone.

Shattered probably at the same moment Aizen shattered everything else.

"So. Is this business, or should I break out the sake?"

The woman smiled gently, and her dark eyes flitted to Matsumoto's briefly. "I-I came to ask you . . . a question."

"Me?" That was a surprise. She would have been sure the woman had come to apologize to Hitsugaya, considering apparently her conversation with him had not gone so smoothly.

Not that he'd admitted that, either.

And not that they'd had too much time to talk about it. After their brief encounter with the Arrancar, they'd stuck around to ensure another would not be hot on its heels, left Yumichika and Renji to keep things under control, and returned to Soul Society to give in-person reports to the other captains.

For the purposes of directing their training.

Technically she should had been outside giving a few of the seated 10th division shinigami a workout, but the couch had called. And no matter how wonderful Inoue Orihime was, her apartment would never be the same as this room.

Her room.

Eventually Toushirou would see it that way too.

And frankly, given the encounters and the level of damage that had been inflicted on both sides, she didn't want to see any of the 10th division seated shinigami anywhere near the Arrancars. They'd be wiped out before they could even draw.

She couldn't help her gaze traveling to Haineko, whole and unbroken on the low wooden table before the couch.

Hinamori didn't seem to notice her friend's sudden lack of attention. "I . . . I wanted to ask you about . . . Ichimaru Gin."

Rangiku effortless stifled any reaction, instead putting on a wide smile and turning to more fully face the fukataichou of the 5th division.

"I'm afraid I don't know much," she offered. "What about him?"

Momo was looking at her hands, struggling with each other in her lap as though they were trying to wring the very blood from her fingers. "I . . . I heard that . . . Hitsugaya-kun had sworn to kill him."

She'd heard the same.

He'd done it the first time after they'd taken Kira and Hinamori to detention cells. He'd reiterated it before she'd arrived to block that fateful blow, meant for Hitsugaya but diverted for Hinamori herself.

He meant it.

She sighed, then shook her head. "I've heard the same thing."

Hinamori's eyes were large as they stared at her, shifting slightly as though they were desperately searching her face for something. Oddly, Rangiku felt like she was giving something away.

"But . . . you loved him once, didn't you?"

She let her eyes widen a bit comically. "Ne, Gin or taichou!"

The effect was the one she wanted; Hinamori looked shocked for a second before she broke eye contact, and had to take a breath and start again. "I only meant, I thought you and Gin-taichou-"

"He's not a captain anymore, Hinamori." She tried to make it light.

The girl paused again. "You and Gin met each other as children, in Rukongai?"

Oy. Was she going to have to tell the whole story again? Did Momo honestly not think she could see where this was headed?

"He saved my life. Twice," she added thoughtfully. "Once, as I lay starving to death. The second time, from a group of men we were robbing."

Momo's eyes were large, and watched her patiently.

Rangiku shook her head. "We didn't have the same relationship you and taichou did, Hinamori. Life was harder for us. No permanent home, no older souls to take us in . . ."

"But why?"

Why indeed. She wondered if that was the reason Gin had given himself every time he walked away, to try to quash his guilt It was guilt that kept bringing him back, after all.

She took a breath to speak, then paused. Then smiled slightly.

"Have you ever seen Ichimaru Gin's eyes, Hinamori? Really seen them?"

The younger lieutenant stared at her, mouth ajar, before mutely shaking her head.

"They're red. Where Hitsugaya's eyes are green, Gin's are as red as blood."

She couldn't even recall the last time she'd actually seen them. Seen him that serious. She glanced again, almost unconsciously, at her zanpaktou.

"No one would take in a child with red eyes. Even in the afterlife, it was too unusual." And more than once a reason for their being attacked.

Of course, his attitude hadn't helped.

"Ichimaru Gin walks away," she said simply, catching Momo's eyes. "He leaves. It's what he does. It's what he did."

She sighed softly, looking back down at her hands. While still balled into her kimono, they'd settled down quite a bit. "I see."

"I was very grateful to him," she continued, laying her head against the curved back of the couch. "He took care of me, when I was too scared to do it for myself. He kept us fed, kept clothes on our backs. He would fight off brigands five times his size with only a tree branch or a rock . . ." She stopped, then shook her head. "But he always wanted the easy out. It's why Shinsou matches him so perfectly."

"I don't understand."

Rangiku allowed herself a sincere grin. "Have you ever seen a shikai as lazy as his? He doesn't even have to move to pierce his opponent, no matter how they try to dodge."

Well, he had to move a little more than, say, Byakuya-taichou, but it wasn't as if he actually had to swing the blade. He could even manipulate the sword to curve upwards or down without more than a millimeter's twitch of his hand.

"Neither do you, Matsumoto-san."

She blinked for a moment, then laughed. "It almost sounded as though you were calling me lazy, Hinamori-chan."

Immediately the shorter woman ducked her head. "I apologiz-"

Rangiku waved a lazy hand dismissively.

A comfortable silence extended between them for some moments, Hinamori formulating her next question and Rangiku wondering at the coincidence of dreaming of him only to be woken to this.

Some of it needed to be said. Some of it needed to be heard. By both pairs of ears.

"He seemed to have such respect for you."

This time her snort was not measured, and it was very bitter. "What makes you say that?"

Her face was very serious. "He was attacking Shirou-chan. When he dodged, the attack was aimed for me, instead. All you did was speak to him, and he withdrew –"

"That's what he does, Hinamori." She repeated it a little harder this time.

"Do you . . . think that maybe it's something more?"

Rangiku leaned up, looking the other woman squarely in the eye. "Gin shattered Haineko with that blow."

The girl's eyes widened slightly, and Matsumoto grimaced. That was one of the things those ears didn't need to hear.

It didn't make it less true.

"He withdrew because he realized even with a broken zanpaktou I could defeat Kira with shikai, and taichou was winning the fight. If he had killed me, taichou would have ended him before he could shorten Shinsou enough to defend himself." Among other things. "He spared us both to save his own life."

Momo looked at her for a long moment, then dropped her gaze.

"You came to ask whether I would ask taichou to break his oath, didn't you."

Hinamori visibly started, then dropped her eyes back to her hands. They were still shaking.

"Shirou-chan will kill him," she whispered.

Matsumoto stared at Haineko, watching the light play on the lacquered sheath, watching nothing at all.

"Yes, he will," she finally replied.

She realized they were no longer talking about Gin.

The hands twisted painfully into the folds of the black kimono, and tears started to glisten in the other girl's eyes. "But what if-"

Matsumoto mutely shook her head.

"You can't know that!" the other girl cried, finally succumbing to tears. "You can't know-!"

"I do," she said simply, unable to keep the sympathy out of her voice. "Because Hitsugaya-kun does. Trust him."

Yes, trust the spiky white-haired man in her life instead of the straight-haired one.

Or the long-haired one, come to think of it. It had been a very long time since she'd last had sake with Ukitake-taichou and Shunsui-taichou. Perhaps she should do so before they had to return to the living world. It would be interesting to get their take on the entire situation.

Disheartening, probably. Possibly even defeating. But interesting nonetheless.

Hinamori struggled with that for a moment, then collapsed in tears. Rangiku reached across the distance between them, eliminating it and dragging the girl into her embrace.

"But Aizen-sama will kill him!" she sobbed into Matsumoto's shoulder. "They'll destroy each other!"

That was all too likely. If Hitsugaya could actually do it at all.

Matsumoto stroked Momo's hair, resting her cheek against the sobbing girl's head and waiting patiently for her to regain her composure. It took more time than she had thought; a full ten minutes passed before the other lieutenant withdrew, wiping her eyes on her sleeve and looking as lost as a child soul that had just been buried by a shinigami.

"Trust Hitsugaya-taichou," she repeated.

Momo nodded, sniffling, her eyes downcast. And Rangiku realized suddenly that all her careful words had changed nothing.

Hinamori wasn't convinced. She just didn't feel like fighting anymore. Didn't feel like facing the truth, even when it came from Yamamoto's lips. So she'd withdraw to the 5th division office, where there were no words trying to convince her otherwise, and take out that letter that Aizen had written, and -

How was that any different from her ring?

"I've taken up too much of your time, Matsumoto-san-"

"Come by anytime," she replied, giving the girl a half-hearted smile as Hinamori stood from the couch. "We need to have a girl's night out before too long."

Before they couldn't, anymore. Before there wouldn't be any more girls to attend.

Unohana-taichou stood a chance of surviving this battle, if it could be survived. Not that she attended many parties. Her lieutenant, Isane, and Isane's sister Kiyone, neither had a prayer. Kurosaki Ichigo had knocked them cold without even using his zanpaktou. Probably he could have done the same to her. Nanao was incredibly skilled with kidou, but her taichou would likely not let her into the battle.

She had always felt that the captains, including hers, were a little too protective of their lieutenants. Now she had an inkling why.

They were going to be wiped out. If what they'd faced in the real world had been nothing more than the grunts -

The other woman smiled, her eyes almost closing for the huge, fake smile she flashed. "Hai, Matsumoto-san! Thank you!"

Rangiku just nodded, and let her head drop back against the sofa.

To his credit, he waited almost two full minutes after she had gone before walking in.

She felt more than heard him stop, halfway to his desk, as though surprised to see her sitting up. "Oy, Matsumoto. You awake?"

"Hai, taichou."

Her somber reply seemed to put him a little off balance, and she listened to him continue over to his desk, opening the lovely ebony box that held his calligraphy brush. It had been a gift from Yamamoto when he'd attained the rank of Captain, the same he gave to all the new captains.

Possibly reminding them that they were going to have their weight in paperwork before the ceremony was finished.

In Hitsugaya's case, probably more than his weight.

"Something wrong, Matsumoto-san?"

She kept her eyes closed. While the dim, big-boobed bimbo image worked surprisingly well on the 11th division, and keeping it up in the real world had been no end of amusement to her, she knew Hitsugaya saw right through it.

Well, she hoped he did.

"Hai, taichou."

There was a silence, in which she did not hear brush-strokes on paper. So he'd stilled.

"He'll sense your reiatsu, the same as I did."

Still nothing. If possible, the room had become more silent.

"Gin shattered Haineko, taichou."

The ebony box closed.

"Haineko cracked, Matsumoto." His voice was . . . oddly husky. "Your zanpaktou didn't break."

"That blow was meant for you." She didn't move.

It was very, very odd to be having this conversation. The last time she'd spoken this seriously with her captain had been a week after he had been placed into the position. He was consistently serious. Usually, she was merely following his commands, and she did so unhesitatingly.

But not this time. There were more things he needed to hear. And since Hinamori had all but written a script to set it up-

"Hai. Most of his speed was behind it."

"It was a single blow, taichou. I . . . don't have the power to follow you to him."

The end of the sofa cushion, so recently vacated by Hinamori, sighed quietly,

Rangiku's eyes flew open, turning in shock to see Hitsugaya lounged there. He was leaning against the armrest as though they did it regularly, and his white haori draped over it, so that it looked as though he were relaxing against a bank of snow.

"So get stronger."

She stared at him a moment, then closed her eyes and let her head fall back again. "You sound like Zaraki-taichou."

"Oof. That was insulting."

She opened her eyes, regarding the ceiling. Perhaps this would have been better to write instead of speaking. "I can't kill him, Hitsugaya-sama."

The young captain looked at her, his blue-green eyes large in contrast to his face. So much confidence. So much resolve.

God, he was only a kid.

"You don't have to."

Matsumoto reached up, touching the ring that lay against her sternum.

"He gave that to you."

She nodded. "It's my letter," she said simply.

Silence stretched between them for a moment, and though he was taking up significantly more of the couch than Hinamori had, he felt even further away.

"You don't have to do that, either," he answered.

Only her eyes moved, looking at him.

He had that self-assured smirk on his face. She considered swatting it off.

"I trust you, Matsumoto," he said simply.

After a while, she picked up her head, stretching a little, before reaching out a graceful hand to pick up her zanpaktou. Haineko had healed long ago from that crack. Before Aizen and his subordinates had left Soul Society, in fact. He had been whole when he lay across Gin's throat.

Why was she so afraid to see him broken again?

"Glad to hear it, taichou. Go and get Hyourinmaru."

He stared at her. "Oh?"

She stood, shaking out her auburn hair before tucking Haineko into her obi. "We need to work on your bankai."

His expression became guarded. "M-Matsumoto, the limit-"

"The arrancar was right," she said simply. "Those petals symbolize your power over Hyourinmaru." Though she'd never seen them disappear that fast before. He was probably right about that – that had been a symptom of the limit they'd later lifted.

Of course, when fighting a higher-level opponent, the problem wasn't that they'd eventually shatter on their own.

"Ichimaru's Shinsou will be able to take out half those petals in a single pass." It would effectively cut his bankai time in half. Assuming he wasn't sliced in half along with the petals. It would be something Gin would notice instantly, and like Hitsugaya hadn't realized his dodge put Hinamori in danger, his fighting style wouldn't put much emphasis on protecting those petals.

"Once you can fend me off, we should get Kuchiki-taichou or Soi-sama to spar with you," she continued. "If Gin will see that opening, so will Aizen." Hyourinmaru had plenty of strength. It was really speed that would save Hitsugaya in those battles.

If anything would.

He hadn't moved from his place on the couch. She wasn't surprised. She'd just finished telling him she was too weak to take on the elite Arrancars, and now she was declaring herself capable of damaging his bankai.

She wondered, very briefly, if Haineko had the strength to shatter even one.

The zanpaktou didn't answer her unspoken question, but that was like him. He hadn't even cried out when he'd been broken.

If she didn't have the strength when she started, she would have it when she finished.

"Your shikai isn't suited for this sort of training," he noted.

She waved a hand dismissively. "Then I won't use shikai."

Fin

**Author's Notes:** Wow! I got feedback :feels loved: Thank you all for your kind words!

These were originally started because there were things about Bleach that I didn't understand. Why Byakuya was so aloof and spoiled when his past self had broken all kinds of laws for a submissive little country girl. Why a smart guy like Gin would follow Aizen knowing he was going to get screwed in the end. Why Matsumoto wore a ring on a lariat and Gin never seemed willing to interfere with her. Why a pink-haired little girl with flowers on her sword was a lieutenant in a division where even the 3rd seat has mastered Bankai. How Aizen somehow managed not to kill a single person in ten eps (and tens of comics) of fights.

I've got more to answer.

This chapter is actually a rewrite – the first version was a great deal darker, and some of these were supposed to be funny! I tried to lighten this chapter at least a little, and I promise the next one will be funny. Funny ha-ha, not funny weird. Not funny-funny, but funnier.

So if I haven't covered your captain or lieutenant of choice, hang in there. I'm working on it! If there's a question you've always had about the Bleach world that needs to be answered, let me know and I'll see what I can pull out of my -er, pull out of thin air.


	4. Unohana Retsu

Unohana Retsu was afraid.

She didn't run, though. She stood her ground as the flood of shocked men and women poured by her. And stared.

Of the entire crowd, she was probably the only one that was more afraid of the man than of the beast.

Blood trickled down her right cheek, but the idea of wiping it away never occurred to her. She just felt it, an odd prickling sensation, and the more she concentrated on it, the more prickling it became.

It, and the pain of the cut, served to ground her in reality. This was really happening.

It was not her first time to be injured in sparring. In a few months they'd all be taking their exit exams, which meant they'd had significant training. It also meant they had little combat experience. So cramming a classful of student shinigami into a large courtyard to practice using their zanpaktous on each other was going to eventually lead to some unfortunate but unavoidable casualties.

She was thinking, though, that her sensei wasn't going to see this one as 'unavoidable.'

It was also, possibly, the very first time in the history of Soul Society that one student's zanpaktou had killed another student by eating him.

The large, single eye on the beast looked mildly confused as it surveyed the courtyard, and then it fell on her.

And strangely, she felt no fear.

In fact, it was all she could do to prevent her feet from moving, from taking her right to the very mouth of that beast. She longed to touch its skin, reassure it that even though it wasn't getting the greatest reception, and had certainly not done what she'd wanted it to, that she wasn't angry.

She wasn't even really sure what she wanted it to do. Her zanpaktou had never uttered so much as a word to her until right then. It wasn't as though she'd been in danger of losing her life –

But it wasn't as though she'd been winning, either.

"Che, Retsu," a voice called out above the startled chatter. "Why so serious?"

She stared at the manifestation of her zanpaktou – or perhaps it was really a shikai? If so, it was huge-

Huge wasn't even the right word. The white stone that made up the floor of the courtyard was cracked and cratered by the viciously taloned feet, and even as the thing shifted slightly, trying to get a good look around, more of that stone was ground to dust beneath its weight. It was almost disc-shaped, with massive, fleshy wings that looked more suited for flying through river rather than air.

Minatzuki even had a tail.

She supposed it made since, considering her sealed zanpaktou was a gigantic, wickedly curved no-datchi. But what . . .

That might have been why she was so serious.

That zanpaktou. Her Minatzuki. Now she finally knew its name. His name. There was no doubt, looking at that slightly reproachful eye, that mouth that stretched almost the entire length of his body, that he was a he. And he was apparently capable of thought.

Was he disappointed in her?

The outdoor courtyard had, for the most part, cleared. It was only going to be a few more moments before their instructor brought the general of the captains – and the academy's founder – out to see what it was that she had done.

Could she seal him before that occurred?

Unohana looked down at the green-wrapped hilt in her hand. It felt large and heavy, and extremely unbalanced without the blade. That blade was almost as long as she was tall, so it kind of make sense that the same proportions would exist on her shikai. That the attacking blade – or in this case, mouth – would continue to be surprisingly huge.

How could she condense this thing back into a blade? He was as huge as some of the bankai she had seen in their texts. A new thought occurred to her horrified brain. What if she couldn't seal him back in? What if they had to defeat him because she didn't have the power to control him?

Such a big zanpaktou for such a nice girl, they said. All that power but no will to use it, they said. Being controlled by a zanpaktou instead of the other way around.

They said that her zanpaktou had mastered her.

It wasn't true. She could have passed exit exams without ever knowing the name of her zanpaktou. But it would have made her the only one in the class. Almost fully half of her class had already mastered their shikais, at least summoning and controlling their powers. Once they were placed in one of the seven divisions, they would be put against real Hollows, and the serious training would really begin.

It was Sensei's job to show them their potential, and their captain's job to help them achieve it.

But what captain would take on a woman that didn't like to fight?

She already knew she was headed for the fourth division. It was the least combative of all the divisions, created for medical treatment and relief. Despite her vicious-looking sword, she would much rather tend to the wounded than create the wounds herself. She was good at it, too – the very best their kidou instructor had ever seen with those spells. She didn't have to like fighting. There would be a place there for her, and it was exactly where she wanted to go.

Giving up, they called it. Admitting that she didn't have the resolve to command the power that was hers to take.

Afraid, they called her.

And so it was not unexpected to find that, in sparring exercises, she had to dodge not only the attacks from her opponent, but attacks from other students' opponents. They would laugh, shrug them off, tell her to stop getting in the way or tell the supposed target to stop dodging and putting her in danger. But she knew some of those attacks had been crafted specifically knowing that the initial target would dodge, and she would be there to receive the wound instead.

It was why her cheek was bleeding.

And it made her angry. Angry to the roots of her thick black hair.

But was it enough to justify the killing of another student?

Because, for a split second, she'd wanted to.

Yet surely one second of intense, intense anger would not have caused this? Surely that was not the 'resolve' that her sensei spoke of? Normal teasing, even dishonest attacks, she was used to them. But he'd gone far past teasing. He'd pointed his zanpaktou at her, straight-armed, and spoken in his usually deep, serious voice.

"This session is for us to teach one another how to fight. I do not know how you could have manifested such a zanpaktou, but without it you would be quickly killed by your opponent. I have fought you before. You are weak. I do not believe you could manifest such a sword again.

"I will break your zanpaktou, Unohana Retsu."

Just the memory brought with it flash of rage and a deep desire to protect. Though it was pretty clear that Minatzuki had his own ideas about how to protect himself.

But nothing about Minatzuki looked . . . angry. Looked threatening. Besides his enormous size, and the fact that when he'd manifested he swallowed two shinigami whole, she wanted to climb up on his back and scratch it rather than run from him. The eye, reflecting disappointment, was gentle. That huge mouth was lined with stiff bristles rather than sharp teeth. The wings looked as though a powerful shinigami could remove them from his body with no more effort than taking an arm off a Hollow. It needed its two feet for standing, there was no way they'd stretch far enough out from the rest of its body to be used as a weapon.

There was no armor. There were no spikes. There was nothing but that gaping, huge mouth.

"Su-chan." It was very quiet, and to her right. She finally tore her eyes away from her zanpaktou and found them looking at the profile of Kyouraku Shunsui's face. He hadn't shaved in days, and his normally affable expression had shifted subtly to mild concern.

"Urahara Kisuke . . . ?"

She closed her eyes.

That was not the name of her opponent.

That was the name of the other man that had gotten caught up in that huge mouth.

It was just too big. He'd manifested in midair, flapping those great wings and crying out with a sound like she imagined the core of the planet might sigh. It was deep and mournful and beautiful. He'd descended, shaped those body-length lips into an "O" –

And with a very surprised look, Urahara Kisuke had disappeared in alongside Danzo Maru.

And considering how large Maru was, it was impressive that anything could have put him in its mouth, let alone swallow him in a single bite.

There was nothing that was unimpressive about her Minatzuki.

Maru had been right. She didn't deserve this zanpaktou.

"Cheer up, Su-chan. I don't think anyone can deny now that yours is the biggest."

Her eyes flew open to see him grinning disarmingly at her.

"Shunsui-san!"

But she didn't finish the reprimand. Not because his attitude and comments weren't completely inappropriate, but because she realized there was someone much more important to speak to, and scolding him would be just as inappropriate in her sensei's presence.

She could feel his reiatsu no matter where she was in the Court of Pure Souls, but never had she felt it to this extend. He was reaching out with it, probably to inspect her shikai.

She continued to be still, and faced her zanpaktou. Please, she willed at it, please return to your hilt.

Her stomach had dropped into a cold ball that felt as though it were slowly turning, over and over in a slow-motion fall. A cold sweat was collecting on her upper lip. The hand that gripped the hilt of her sword trembled with the effort she was putting into it. But still Minatzuki stood and watched her, and still that single eye showed gentle confusion and reproach.

It felt as though she were asking the impossible.

She needed to get him back into his sealed form, or he was going to eat someone else.

Like Yamamoto-sama, seeing as he was the next closest shinigami.

Their sensei had appeared before her without her quite knowing how he got there, an the bent old man now stood between her and Minatzuki, his ivory brows raised slightly to give his eyes a better view. He was regarding the one-eyed creature with something like a cross between gentle reprimand and appreciation. This was, at least, a good sign. And it was extremely doubtful, even as big as it was, that this shinigami could not easily defeat her shikai. He could burn it to ash if he wanted.

She felt that she would throw herself on this creature to prevent that. Her Minatzuki.

"Please, sensei!" she found herself crying, before she had even thought the words. "Please, I will seal it!"

The rest of her class was staring at Minatzuki as though they were looking at a Hollow.

Someone – probably Isshin, judging from the strength of the grip – put a hand on her shoulder. "Wow," he said seriously. "I know he teased you, Su-chan, but wasn't that a bit extreme?

If she wasn't so terrified that her shikai was about to be brutally shattered, she might have retorted.

Humor was Kurosaki Isshin's coping mechanism. He meant no insult. He was trying to deal with it himself. As it was, she was glad of the hand. Despite that fact that she had just finished off both a friend and another student, he still had the heart to speak to her.

Yamamoto-sama held up a hand, asking without speaking for silence, and the frightened chatter of the group far behind her died to the softest of murmurs. She bowed her head, remaining where she was as the two Fourth Division healers, apparently summoned at the same time, approached Yamamoto-taichou.

The founder of the Academy, Commander General of the Battle Squads, and Captain of the First Division, Yamamoto Genryuusai was the most imposing figure any of the shinigami had ever seen. Their first impression of him, on the first day of their acceptance to the Central Spirit Technique Institute, was that he was older than God. He carried a heavy wooden staff and his eyes were nearly closed from age. Yet when they opened, when he spoke . . .

He made a soul want to be better. Do more. Achieve greatness. He was a magnificent teacher, with more patience than his fire-based Zanpaktou would ever have indicated. He was a strong leader, commanding respect from the other six Captains and their instructors alike. He was a grandfather, taking students aside to express his pride in their achievements.

And he was a disciplinarian, who tolerated no injustice.

She felt his gaze on her head, but did not look up, and after a moment he turned to the healers. He didn't even have a chance to address them before one of them spoke.

"Fourth seat, Fourth division, reporting as ordered! We received word there was a sword-wound inflicted on student shinigami Danzo Maru!"

The second one was silent, mouth still gaping wide open in shock.

Yamamoto Genryuusai-taichou paused a moment, clearly in deep thought, and the same healer spoke again.

"General, sir, I cannot locate –"

"Student shinigami Unohana Retsu ate him with her zanpaktou," Shunsui supplied, in an oddly chipper voice.

She squeezed her eyes shut but held her tongue. It was not her turn to speak.

Please, Minatzuki. Please. Obey me.

"Your patient is inside this young woman's first release," her sensei confirmed, clearly and calmly.

The second healer choked.

"He was consumed whole. As you can see," he continued in the same gentle tone, "your services are no longer required."

Behind her, she heard the class break into murmurs. Only snippets carried to her ears on a light wind that had come up, the voices very soft for fear of being caught by sensei's still-sharp ears.

Be expelled for this. Huge. Shouldn't have been so serious. Dangerous.

"Please send for the Fourth Division taichou," Yamamoto-sama finished quietly, and he turned his attention to her.

As always when under his gaze, she fought the desire to kneel and bow her head. He emanated so much raw power, and she knew what she felt was not even a tiny representation of the strength he truly had. His eyes were already so old, and yet so warm, as though the fires that burned within his zanpaktou burned with a desire to teach, to help. That all that destructive force desperately wanted to create, rather than destroy.

She trusted him implicitly. If he deemed her unable to control her shikai at this time, he would seal it one way or the other, and she could not protest.

But that eye . . . could her Minatzuki feel the pain of a sword wound? How great it would have to be to destroy such a large beast!

"All of you, approach." His beard, confined by the leather strap that crisscrossed all the way down it, twitched as another light breeze blew through the courtyard.

There were sounds of dismay from the crowd behind her, but Isshin squeezed her left shoulder, and Shunsui glanced sideways at her, and she found her feet moving.

They stopped about ten paces before Yamamoto-san, Kurosaki Isshin immediately bowing and Shunsui murmuring some greeting, but she had no ears for them. As if spellbound, she walked past her sensei, past her instructor, across the few yards that separated her from Minatzuki. The eye twinkled at her, and as she had been aching to do, she reached up and touched the creature.

Perhaps Minatzuki was simply looking for appreciation?

He was warm and soft, firm and not unlike the skin of a peach. His flesh would be easy to rend with a sword, and even at her light touch the muscles beneath that skin relaxed in enjoyment. A very peculiar sound came from somewhere deep within the huge thing, deep and melodic and wonderful.

It elicited more gasps from behind.

Please, she implored mentally. Please.

He just wriggled slightly under her touch as one might expect of a pet. A pet about half the size of the training courtyard. What he did not do was vanish back into his sheath.

Unohana gasped involuntarily as she realized Yamamoto-sama was standing just beside her.

"How did you summon this?" It was a dry question, in much the same tone he would use to ask the incantation for the kidou number 36. It was his teaching voice.

Of course. There was a great lesson to be learned here, even amidst this tragedy.

She turned to him, bowing low. "I called his name, sensei."

"Only his name? Nothing else?"

She remained bent at the waist. "Hai."

"And what was that?"

She swallowed hard. "M-Minatzuki, sensei."

He nodded thoughtfully, then turned back towards the class. His hand on her arm very lightly guided her back to where her two classmates stood, showing their solidarity for her. They were endangering themselves, supporting a student that killed two others with an uncontrolled release of shikai, and she opened her mouth to ask them to join the rest of the class when a student in the front of the gathering, Jyuushiro caught her eye and shook his head.

Was sensei angrier than he appeared? Was she was going to be expelled from the Academy?

"Kurosaki Isshin."

"Hai, sensei." For once, his voice was serious, as though the reality of what had been done to his friend was sinking through.

Unohana fought off the sudden urge to burst into tears, closing her eyes again. If she could not dissuade him, she didn't want to dishonor him with her eyes.

"Did you witness the moments before this shikai was released?"

"Hai, sensei."

"Describe them for us."

There was a pause, and despite herself she glanced up at him. He was scratching his dark beard, eyes thoughtful. "Maru was being a jackass," he began slowly, "and had threatened to break Su-chan's zanpaktou when they started sparring." He glanced at Shunsui, who was wearing his usual friendly, blank look, and frowned. "Then I had to look away because this clown can't just stick to one zanpaktou, and when I glanced again I saw Su-chan make a pretty good slash across Maru's left arm."

She'd actually sliced it upward most of its length, though she'd managed to pull the blow before she took out the tendons of his elbow. She had never struck out in anger, with intent to injure before, and had misjudged the length of Minatzuki a bit, so that she'd cut him to the bone without really intending more than a superficial slice. The large splash of blood her wound had caused still glistened dully on the broken stone where Minatzuki now stood.

But she'd spilled that blood. Not him. At least not as he was now.

"He sliced her face in retaliation, and then she called out the name of her zanpaktou." He held his hand out in front of him, flat, and then she watched him slip from at least semi-respectful to his normal self. "Then her sword disintegrated into dust, which flew up –" and he demonstrated, with an enthusiastic whooshing sound and accompanying gesture, "gave an earth-cracking shriek, and dived at the one that had tried to ruin her beauty! Its speed was far too great, and in one swoop-" and this was accompanied by a full-body demonstration that ended at Yamamoto-taichou's feet "it had consumed her opponent."

"And Kisuke-san," Shunsui noted drily.

"That's right. Urahara couldn't pay attention because he had just been on the receiving end of my special Dark Fists of Justice!"

Unohana wondered, sometimes, what had happened to that man to make him so bizarre. But it was true that Kisuke had been far too dazed by whatever Isshin had done to move himself in time. He'd been cradling his right arm, and had enough time to look up in astonishment before he had been completely consumed.

It had just been an unlucky coincidence that he had fallen so near Maru.

She was also shocked that anyone else had heard the exchange between them prior to the beginning of the match. Particularly that it had been Isshin.

He was going to tease her relentlessly about this. If she wasn't expelled or charged.

"Unohana-san."

She yanked her head up, ashamed to have been caught in her own thoughts.

"How do you feel? You look unwell."

She stared at her sensei, unsure of how to say that her churning stomach was worsening as the full reality of what she had inadvertently done set in. That she was just starting to realize all of the mistakes she had made, endangering herself, her opponent, every student in the courtyard. That she couldn't even remember the word Minatzuki had told her that had released him in the first place.

All she remembered saying was his name. And you couldn't suddenly command a first release with only the name of a zanpaktou. At least, a student wasn't capable of doing that. It took decades of training to accomplish release without incantation. None of the students around her, already familiar with their shikais, had accomplished anything close.

"I am not hurt, sensei," she managed.

He gave her a measuring look, then turned his face a bit more to the group.

The courtyard was usually green and soft, with large squares covered in white stonework to mark each ring. Combatants were expected to remain within those squares to the best of their ability, to avoid exactly the kind of thing that had happened – a shikai or zanpaktou out of the control of its shinigami. Enormous, broad white walls rose up around it about fifteen feet into the air, their color and stature marking the area as a practice arena. It was one of many, and not the largest by far. A little bit of dust was being kicked up, it swirled between the forest of white and crimson kimonos that made up her class. A lone cypress tree stood in the far corner, shedding leaves one at a time to be dispersed around the enormous, enclosed space.

Minatzuki had formed inside of the courtyard to the left, far enough in that he hadn't even touched the wall. Barely. That left a little over half the remaining space for the class, which meant there wasn't a single student, no matter how far they hung back, that could not clearly hear the general and primary captain.

"When do most shinigami first hear the name of their zanpaktou?"

She wasn't certain if the question was meant for her to answer, or someone else. In the end, a rather shy, dark-haired shinigami named Koatsi Yumu responded.

"When their resolve is highest, sensei."

The old shinigami's eyes closed as he nodded, his scarred, bald head catching the sunlight. "This is so."

He turned to face Unohana squarely. "Tell us, then – what was your resolve? What were your thoughts in the moments before your zanpaktou spoke?"

She dropped her eyes from his, letting them flicker across all the faces looking at her. The front line of them, including Ukitake Jyuushiro, no longer looked alarmed. This was possibly because Minatzuki hadn't really done more than repeat his call and occasionally blink. And most of them were her friends, people that respected her. Some of them jokingly called her "Mother" for her habit of trying to help them with everything from homework to minor cuts and bruises. A few gave her wan smiles, though Ukitake's was wide and encouraging.

In fact, he almost looked relieved.

But the two dozen shinigami behind them were still looking fearfully, and not only at Minatzuki.

They were looking at her.

She chose to look back at Sensei. He was trying to teach her, and she was allowing her own worry to distract her.

"I was . . . I was thinking that Maru was going to try to break Minatzuki, sensei." she finally replied. It was truth. But it wasn't all truth. "A-And so I wished to injure him, to show him the range of my zanpaktou to keep him back. But when I struck him – I did not mean to wound him so seriously." And she had certainly never meant for Urahara Kisuke to have been caught up in the mess, the only attention she'd paid him was to spot him and eye his arm with concern.

And even now, it was as though she could feel an echo of what her friend's reiatsu used to be.

"Did you feel anger, or concern for this?"

It was a hard question. She was still angry with Maru. If he were alive and standing before her she would continue the fight with a snarl on her face, she would make him fear her power so that she could protect her zanpaktou. She could dissuade him from pursuing his goal. But she would not deeply wound him, even if the Fourth Division healers were on the training grounds to take care of any wounds.

"I was concerned," she answered softly. "I cut him quite deeply."

"You called only the name of your zanpaktou. Most shinigami must also perform a short incantation, usually a word of command. How many shinigami can you name that can also release their zanpaktous using only their name?"

She thought for a moment before breaking eye contact and shaking her head. She could think of no one off-hand, though she was certain all the captains could do it. He turned then to face the class. Here there was a light rippling among the crowd, and Yamamoto-sama scanned his students for a volunteer without success.

"I suggest time in the library," he reprimanded lightly.

And then it was clear that he was speaking to her alone again, though he hadn't moved. "Your Minatzuki has always been a relatively large sword," her sensei continued. "Are you so surprised that your shikai should also reflect your high spirit pressure?"

She stared at him.

The breeze swept through again, playing with the hem of his kimono, and she realized that it wasn't being caused by his reiatsu.

It was being caused by hers.

When had she released it . . .? Hastily she clamped down on her spirit pressure, her eyes downcast once more.

How many more mistakes must she make in front of this esteemed leader? Minatzuki still did not speak to her, still did not return to his sheath.

The general nodded. "Well done, Unohana-san."

"I am grateful, sensei."

"Now, Unohana-san, I must ask that you return Kisuke Urahara and Danzo Maru to us."

She blanched. How on earth . . . but they would need to be buried. After a moment, she swallowed and nodded.

He indicated the patiently waiting Minatzuki, and she licked her lips before turning to face her zanpaktou. A blur to her left indicated another soul had arrived. The fourth division taichou.

As though there'd be anything he could do.

Minatzuki seemed pleased that her attention had returned to him, and he took one devastatingly heavy step forward. She didn't flinch, and reached up a hand to pet his upper lip. It twitched appreciatively.

He was so big, she could probably fit the entire class on his back. Had he not done what he had done, she might have used him to move the younger students back and forth between classes for practice. Now they would be far too frightened.

She wondered when she'd get a chance to release him again. Or the special circumstances that would have to be put into place to make it safe for everyone.

"I am sorry, Minatzuki," she started, very softly. She wasn't sure she wanted the entire class to hear her first conversation with her zanpaktou. She wasn't sure she was really supposed to be having one. Everyone knew that zanpaktous were alive, but no one else's shikai actually blinked at them and fluttered a . . . a wing.

A tail. Minatzuki had a tail, too.

"I will do better next time," she added. "I will keep this from happening again."

Minatzuki made what seemed like an impatient noise, and Unohana swallowed another wave of nervous nausea.

"You really ought to do this sooner than later, Su-chan," Shunsui called sweetly. "I really think they're about done."

She whirled around to stare at him, smiling easily with relaxed arms. Behind him, she could have sworn Jyuushiro had also just straightened his face from a grin. Could he mean –

Was there a chance, even wounded and encased in her shikai, that both were still alive? Was that why sensei had summoned the fourth division taichou?

"Give them back to us, Minatzuki," she said, with a great deal more authority than she had expected. It wasn't angry, or even hard. It was very polite. It just sounded as though she really expected it to happen.

And, before her disbelieving eyes, Minatzuki made an odd face, gathered his mouth up into an O shape, and vomited out two vastly different bodies. A little flood of fluid followed them, and the white kimono-covered bodies landed face-first on the ground.

At the same time, her nausea dissipated into nothing.

There was a collection of shouts behind her, but she ignored them, rushing to her fellow, now slime-coated, students. The thick liquid that covered them did not seem tinged with blood, and she hesitated only a second before reaching out to gently turn Urahara.

She thought the fluid would burn, but it simply felt warm and slippery. Kisuke's hair was matted with it, his eyes were closed, and he still unconsciously held his injured arm to his body.

But there wasn't a mark on him.

And, to her astonishment, he suddenly gasped.

Beside him, Danzo Maru twitched slightly, then rolled himself over.

She helped Kisuke to sit up, still staring at Maru in shock. His left arm was extended above his head, and it was whole and intact. Not only was the wound gone, but his reiatsu felt fine. As though nothing had happened. His eyes slitted as he took in his surroundings, and then, upon seeing her, he frowned deeply.

"Did you mean to drown us?" he ground out, then hacked up a rather large amount of fluid.

The captain of the fourth division brushed by her, waving a dark hand over Kisuke's face before shooting Unohana a very curious look. Maru coughed a few more times, his expression one of deep disgust.

"And one more thing, Unohana-san," came the ancient voice behind her.

Still slightly staring, she turned back to her sensei.

There was no doubt about it now.

He was smiling.

Behind him, Shunsui wasn't bothering to hide a shout of laughter, and Jyuushiro was grinning from ear to ear.

They'd known. They'd known the entire time.

That echo of reiatsu hadn't been an echo at all. It was what someone else's soul felt like when it was inside her shikai.

Her shikai had healing properties.

"Minatzuki's work is done," Yamamoto said seriously. "While you and he have much to discuss, I think for now, you had best let him rest."

But she couldn't. She'd only asked him half a dozen times to return-

But they'd been inside him. She couldn't condense their souls back into her sheath, or she'd have merged their souls with her zanpaktou.

. . . could she do that?

She held out the sheath Minatzuki normally resided in, and without a word of command he obediently turned into mist, flooding back inside his sheath until only a slight steam rose from it. The weight and feel was exactly the same as before.

He was resealed.

And she had not spoken.

Yamamoto-sama nodded again. "Do you understand now?"

She blinked up at him, then mutely shook her head.

"Your resolve rests with your desire to protect," he told her quietly. "You have avoided fighting as long as you've been a student in this academy, while all the students around you have embraced it. You wish to heal rather than harm. That is reflected in your shikai. But you cannot protect simply by healing those that are wounded. You must also take harmful action to protect them when necessary."

She nodded, bowing her head deeply.

"I believe that will be reflected in your bankai, when you master Minatzuki."

Her eyes flew open in shock. Bankai?

He smiled. "You need not master that today, Unohana-san."

He stepped back, to speak with the Fourth Division captain, and his absence revealed Urahara Kisuke, still sitting in a pool of stomach fluid with Ukitake and Kyouraku crouched on either side of him.

"I had this weird dream," he was telling them, "that Isshin punched me."

"That wasn't a dream," Ukitake murmured.

"And then Unohana-chan released her zanpaktou."

"Also real."

"And it turned into a giant, flying monster."

"Hai."

"And then it ate me."

"Yes."

"And then it digested me."

"It healed you," Jyuushiro corrected. "Did it hurt?"

"Nope. But there was this horrible, evil monster that lived in the stomach."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Looked just like a really sticky Maru."

Unohana walked towards them, preparing her apology.

"Oi, Su-chan," Kisuke called, waving a hand. A splattering of Minatzuki's healing fluid flew through the air to land on the back of Yamamoto-sama's haori. She stared, horrified, but he didn't seem to notice. Kisuke, for his part, didn't even slow down.

"Can your zanpaktou make some more of this stuff?"

She blinked at the unexpected question. "I suppose so."

"Great." He got to his feet, waving his arm experimentally in the air. "Can you make it eat me again, or do I need to break something else first?"

Shunsui rolled his eyes, his curly brown hair falling into them. "Let me guess. You have an idea."

"I was thinking while I was in there, if you could condense this stuff into pill form, you could probably make a neat little product-"

"With a neat little profit, eh, Kisuke?"

"I'd share it with Su-chan . . ."

They all looked at her, waiting for her response, and she couldn't help but smile. The rest of the class was still milling around, shooting her frightened looks, but these three – and Kurosaki Isshin, who she could hear berating the sulking Maru – were staring at her exactly like they would have an hour ago.

"No," she said, in the most dignified manner she could manage.

"But think of all the good it could do-"

"Then why would we sell it?" she asked with a quirked eyebrow.

Kisuke looked deeply taken aback, and Jyuushiro barked a laugh.

"Oi, wounding him without even using your zanpaktou. So cold."

"She's a changed woman, our Su-chan," Shunsui agreed sadly.

She took a deep breath, looking up at the sky, wondering at the joyful feeling that surrounded her. Compliments from Yamamoto-sensei, words from her Minatzuki, respect from her peers. Her fear flitted away as she touched the hilt of her zanpaktou, and thought she heard the echo of Minatzuki's call.

"Hey. Su-chan?"

She glanced down, then flinched back, but it was too late. Urahara had reached out and smeared a fingerful of the fluid on her cheek.

"Su-chan's going to graduate with us," Ukitake noted, not without pride in his voice.

"And with that shikai, probably make fukataichou before us."

The prickling sensation of the cut was quickly fading, and Kisuke gave her a disarming smile.

Fin

**Author's notes**: Total fluff. I know. It's very hard to make these funny, so I think I'll stop trying. Who knew honest fear just isn't funny? Maybe I'll write another series called "Amused." )

The next chapter was requested by dragonzair and will be significantly darker like the first chapters. Thank you all again for such kind feedback!


	5. Urahara Kisuke

Urahara Kisuke was afraid.

He didn't show it, and not for the first time wished for a hat, a way to shadow his eyes. He would have preferred that his eye movements were invisible, so they couldn't see him sizing them up, noticing their positions and not-quite-hidden weapons. He settled for watching them through his blonde bangs.

"What's this? So many 10th Division wishing a tour of the facilities?"

It made sense that it was 10th Division that had been sent to apprehend him. Most of the Court was deeply involved in the ongoing festivals being thrown by the Five Noble Houses, which was significant on more than one level. The Secret Mobile Corps had their orders and their hands far too full trying to quietly keep the drunk nobles from killing one another or blundering into an assassin. Almost all of the Gotei 13 were obligated in one way or another to one or the other of the Houses for one or the other nights, and niceties had to be observed. It was one big party to celebrate the power of the Houses and their shinigami army.

A tiny part of him almost wished the King were here to see it. Perhaps he'd abdicate that other dimension altogether to put them in their place.

But that, of course, was his job, wasn't it.

Kisuke wondered if now weren't the best time to be distracted by mental rebukes.

The shinigami before him were all seated, though their lieutenant was conspicuously absent. Likely seeing to those mandatory niceties in lieu of his captain. Which, of course, meant the monkey was nearby if not already in the laboratory.

He'd chosen the 12th Division lab most isolated from the center of the Seireitei, closest to the west wall, in the hopes that he'd have fewer shinigami to face if the time came to run. For seated shinigami to have been involved at this juncture, however, indicated several things.

The time to run had come and gone.

Things were quite a bit more serious than he'd anticipated.

Someone else knew. Someone who could pull fairly long strings.

All of these were definitely not positive changes.

And all of them complicated an already complicated process.

He wondered if the Secret Police would be the next line of defense. Obviously the back door was no longer going to be as easy to slip out as he'd originally anticipated.

Any blood spilled tonight would be on his hands.

One of the shinigami, Third Seat Kogan Uzuru, stepped forward. His zanpaktou was at his side, hilt protruding slightly from his robes. It was a rather small sword, more of a kodachi than a wakizashi. He'd be able to draw the blade extremely quickly, and it was short enough to swing freely despite the usually limiting factor of the ceiling. Clearly his technique would rely more on defense than attack, but anyone that could swiftly block could just as swiftly turn the motion into something more offensive. He was stepping forward not to show dominance over the other officers, but to shorten the distance between them. To bring Kisuke into range. He did not smile.

"We are under orders to bring you to the First Division holding cell, Urahara-taichou."

He would have applauded the young man if his arms had not been full of a bright, tightly-wrapped yellow blanket. The young shinigami had managed to say without actually saying that Yamamoto was behind this visit, and possibly without Central 46's blessing.

That at least amounted to something. Then again, Yamamoto Genryuusai wasn't terribly fond of him at the moment, so perhaps he shouldn't see too much in the gesture.

Was it preemptive to help him or to slow him down? With Yamamoto, you couldn't really tell until you felt his reiatsu.

He allowed his face to show surprise and concern. "Oh! Such important business, and on such a lovely evening. What on earth have you done to pull such an unlucky straw?"

"You must come with us, Urahara-taichou." His voice was respectful, but firm. He had clearly been told to bring Urahara Kisuke one way or the other. Behind him, the other two shinigami, the fourth and fifth seats, shifted their stance slightly. Still not threatening, per se, but starting to realize he was going to resist.

Kisuke used the blanket to hide the movement of his right hand towards Benihime, tucked neatly at his waist. He didn't want to have to resort to his zanpaktou for this, but one-handed kidou was not a good idea in a laboratory filled with materials that reacted in interesting ways to spirit energy. If two taichous were to have a serious battle in any one of the dozen 12 Division facilities, they would probably either blow themselves sky-high, or disappear into a hole too deep to measure.

Where was that asshole?

"I am truly sorry, Uzuru-sama, but as you can see I have my arms full." He indicated the blanket, held close to his chest. "I will be done in mere moments, but I so regret asking you to wait when I'm certain you have parties to attend-"

"Oh, can it," a gruff voice called down the round stairwell, and in another moment the captain of the 10th Division made his grand entrance. It wasn't so grand; he hated his captain's white haori to the point that he'd reduced it to something very much like the fukataichous' armbands, a great swath of white on his left arm, with the number almost too folded to read. He hadn't shaved for the festivals, so his stubbly black beard looked exactly as though he'd let it go ten days longer than Kyouraku Shunsui's. His eyes were exhausted, angry, and reflected great disappointment.

Things were indeed more serious than they'd first appeared.

"You have no idea how tired that gets," he continued, rubbing the back of his neck and flexing it rather stiffly. "And I don't want my guys trying to imitate it. You're worse than the street peddlers in Rukongai."

Urahara inclined his head in greeting. "Ah, welcome, welcome, Kurosaki Isshin-taichou. And what a colorful comparison you made, there. While unflattering, I cannot doubt your experience."

His friend's expression changed to one of wariness, though Kisuke kept his face mild. He was more than certain Isshin had seen through his first words to those 10th Division officers, so there would be no putting him at ease.

"What's in the blanket?" Isshin's voice was suddenly sharp.

The problem with Kurosaki Isshin was that he didn't have the same problem most extremely powerful souls did, which was that they deafened themselves with their own reiatsu. Their senses were dulled by the constant roar of their power, and rather than cultivate an ability to ignore their own voice, as it were, they usually chose the easier path of simply becoming incapable of hearing anything at all.

Isshin, on the other hand, was extremely powerful and extremely perceptive. Possibly because he'd been one of the first students of Yamamoto Genryuusai, who wouldn't have permitted any less of him.

Perhaps it was because he wouldn't permit any less of himself. He had been a stubborn boy, a stubborn young man, a stubborn officer, and now a stubborn captain. He was far too much like his sister.

And like his sister, he had a weakness for weakness. And there was nothing in the room weaker than the spirit pressure in the blanket.

It was a tiny, flickering ball of reiatsu. So fragile. Even the slightest of breaths would extinguish it.

If he knew how to feed that flame, he would. He would give his entire being to preserving that life. And he would find a way. He'd find a way to fix this. Sooner or later, at whatever cost, he always found a way.

But later was not an option. Sooner was very close to no longer being an option.

Now was looking like the only option.

"Gods, do NOT tell me-"

"A child," he interrupted softly. "Unohana-fukataichou has already been to see him. You can ask her if you'd like, I'll wait here-"

"A child," Kurosaki growled, crossing his arms across his chest. "Seems an unlikely place for a nursery, Kisuke."

"11th Division was training in the southern slopes, and they stumbled upon him. He showed a bright flash of reiatsu when they approached, but that display nearly killed him." He shifted the bundle in his arms, though more to free up his right arm than because the weight was a burden.

It was so light, it was as though the blanket were empty. As though every second that flame continued to burn it was consuming the very vessel that struggled to keep it alight.

Kisuke didn't congratulation himself on the lie. It was getting far too easy. Too easy to come up with such simple, smart fabrications right off the cuff. The seated shinigami were clearly surprised, and the idea of crossing swords with a shinigami captain holding a dying infant, or the idea that he was resisting so he could save a tiny life . . . he couldn't have stripped them of their resolve more efficiently. Dishonesty was becoming a second skin, and he knew if he stopped to consider it long enough, it would terrify him.

Isshin had every right to be disappointed.

Kurosaki Isshin looked as though he were fighting between wanting to disbelieve and wanting to kick Kisuke in the head. "That Kenpachi's getting downright soft, if he's picking up another kid in front of his men."

Kisuke shrugged eloquently. "The healers have done what they could, and then they turned to the Head of Technological Development Department for assistance. I believe I can stabilize his output of spirit pressure before he exhausts himself, but it will be difficult if I am to be detained."

He knew his eyes had hardened to the same resolve that he saw in Isshin, and he made no attempt to soften them, though the rest of his face looked amicable.

He had fooled the 10th Division shinigami, but he was certain Kurosaki Isshin knew he was lying. The captain knew full well that an infant giving off even that much spirit pressure, without a mother to feed it, would have died long before anyone could have saved it. He was also perceptive enough to determine that the gender of that soul, as faint as it might be, was not male.

The two captains faced each other, Isshin now standing a few lengths in front of his subordinates. The lab itself was just under street level of the Court of Pure Souls, a gigantic, round room with equally spaced antechambers branching off at exactly matching angles. It had been constructed during his geometric phase, before he'd been taught to shed his stupidity, and now his eyes darkened at the thought that he would finally pay for that naivety this night.

Sometimes he had to pay his debts with other people's lives.

He wasn't going to pay with this one.

Lanterns and monitors lit the giant chamber, throwing few shadows and lighting every corner. Good light was necessary for research, and made it very hard for semi-intelligent, semi-mobile experiments to creep into corners, or even worse, up the flight of stairs. The U-shaped counter was only open towards those stairs, effectively surrounding him though this enemies were still only to his north.

He'd long ago realized there had been nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Not here. Not in Seireitei. At least that part of the plan had gone without a hitch.

"Not my problem," Kurosaki said brusquely. "Hand him over to Tesssai-fukataichou. Central 46 also thought I'd be in a less than festive mood. Feel grateful they sent me."

Well, that answered the question of whether Yamamoto was trying to help or hinder. So they'd hit him from both sides. Yamamoto had asked, and Central 46 had demanded. It was someone with ties to the 46 . . . Urahara phrased his next sentence very carefully. "Tessai-fukataichou is not here, Isshin. He is making my apologies to the Noble Houses. Though I believe I can find Mayuri-san –"

"Tch," Isshin growled. "That creep wouldn't know what to do with a kid if you handed him a manual."

Another shrug. "I'm afraid that's the best I can do on such short notice."

The second shrug was more than the delicate bundle could tolerate. The protest was soft. No motion came from that cloth. Only a tiny noise, inhuman but trying. In pain.

He'd never heard it before. Pain in that voice. Not like that.

And that reiatsu continued to flicker, mere moments from cold oblivion.

Isshin's resolve seemed to waver at the sound. "Yamamoto-taichou-"

"Is an idiot," he interrupted mildly. "Granted, the modsoul experiment had its flaws, but to ban that type of research altogether-"

Isshin sighed deeply. "Dammit, Kisuke, which part of 'no' is so hard for you to understand?"

"There's nothing wrong with the concept of altering a soul-"

"I'm not here to argue theology with you," Isshin snapped. "You tell me right now if you've been toying with that soul."

Urahara tried not to visibly tighten his hold on the blanket. "Toying would make it sound as though I were being careless." It came out tight despite his attempts to make the words light.

Isshin turned his face, but his eyes never left their deadlock with his. "You three, out. Guard the door. Let no one enter or leave without my expressed permission."

"T-Taichou-"

"Including other captains. Go."

Both men waited until the shinigami had obediently retreated up the winding staircase, both waited for the tell-tale, hollow sound of the door closing. Both waited for the delayed locks to slap into place, for the heavy stone to move.

When no more motion echoed down that stairwell, Kurosaki Isshin put a calm hand on his zanpaktou.

"You're not the Creator, Kisuke!" the captain exploded, quite suddenly. "You can't just go slumming into Rukongai picking up any soul that shines to your liking! Those are lives you're playing with!"

Kisuke finally allowed his emotions to show more plainly on his face, baring his teeth. "What makes you believe that I would, Isshin-san?"

The other taichou made a disgusted noise, but he didn't draw.

"We have a problem, Isshin-san, and no one is heeding the warning-"

"If you would stop pursuing this – obsession of yours, it wouldn't have happened in the first place-"

"But it did!" He couldn't help the volume, it was pretty clear Isshin was settling into one of his 'win the argument with volume' moods, and they didn't have time to stand around debating it all night.

His outburst surprised the other captain, and after a short, tense silence, Urahara drew a careful breath, and tried to make his manner easy. "It's out. Do you understand? They know."

Kurosaki Isshin glared, but didn't start shouting again. "You're running."

Sometimes his ability to suddenly grasp a situation was infuriating.

"Would you be the one to choose which House was the most deserving to have it?" he countered. "At least, knowing you, I can limit your options to four."

Isshin's glare became icy. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were trying to anger me."

Kisuke lowered his chin slightly. "Get out of my way, Isshin-san."

"Tell me what's in that blanket. Did it -?" For the first time there was uncertainty in that rough voice.

Of course. It was so weak he didn't recognize it. "Did the Hougyoku manifest itself? Is that what Yamamoto-sama's so worried about?"

Isshin had changed his stance from one of combat to one of caution, and Kisuke pushed the point, taking a step forward to watch Kurosaki fall back. "The problem isn't the Hougyoku, Isshin! The problem is Yamamoto-sama!"

Something in one of the antechambers popped, and both men jumped. Kisuke had instinctively shifted the bundle in his arms into a more protected position, and he noticed Kurosaki noticing.

It couldn't be helped, now. Isshin either had to play along or be defeated. And standing in a proverbial minefield, with her in his arms, he wasn't sure he could defeat his old friend.

"Did it ever occur to you that he might have a good reason for not wanting to allow soul modification?" Kurosaki was staring at him as though he'd never seen him before. "Did it occur to you there might be a reason for his unwillingness to tolerate these experiments?"

Kisuke almost dropped his eyes. "It's too late for that," he admitted softly.

And suddenly, it was his childhood friend standing in front of him, and not a shinigami captain. Suddenly it was the Kurosaki Isshin that had happily pounced him outside the Academy, laying him flat with a right uppercut. It was the Kurosaki Isshin that had measured just how much sake it took to render him unconscious. It was the Kurosaki Isshin that wasn't a Kurosaki at all.

"Oh, shit, Kisuke. You tried to merge it into a soul, didn't you."

He didn't respond, but he immediately went back to the computer console the three 10th division officers had distracted him from.

Kurosaki Isshin just leaned against one of the desks, shock clearly on his face. "What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking," he muttered, "that I needed to put an end to the research, so whoever is digging it up would hit a dead end." It looked as though it were one of the Kuchikis, though with that Byakuya brat as their Clan leader it wasn't as though they were lacking in power. He knew the Shiba and Shihouin didn't care. But he wasn't sure this interest was coming from the Nobles at all.

They had all the power they could ever want. They were walking on the street that lay just above their heads, wallowing in that power.

This interest had to be coming from a person that didn't hold stock in that kind of power.

And someone that had connections to the 46, somehow. Maybe a student? A lieutenant?

And Yamamoto-taichou, in his infinite wisdom, was choosing to handle this by banning the research necessary to combat this new threat rather than actually face it. Confrontation to be avoided at all costs.

The cost of that confrontation was going to be bigger than even the old man could ever dream. They didn't need the Hougyoku destroyed. They needed it kept intact, and hidden, for when that cost came due.

It was the hidden part that had proved so very difficult.

"Was it one of your subordinates?"

Kisuke glanced up, and Isshin nodded towards the blanket.

Urahara almost smiled. If she'd heard Isshin refer to her as a 'subordinate'-

No. Soi Fong would have kicked his ass before Yoruichi had gotten angry enough to use shunpo.

Soi Fong. Shit. He'd forgotten all about her. The next logical choice to command the Secret Mobile Corps and the Correction Corps. She'd have him tracked down in under a month if the truth were to reach her ears.

"Isshin-san, I need your help." He looked straight at the bearded captain, all pretenses gone. "I have to get out of here."

"You're right." Isshin had straightened, his face unusually serious. "Do you want me to lie for you?"

The abrupt change in him surprised Kisuke, and he almost mistyped a password. "Yes."

"Fine. I'm a great liar. Everybody says." The barb was subtle, but then sometimes Isshin could be subtle. Usually it also meant he was in a very, very dangerous mood.

Urahara again wondered if he was helping or hindering. He was going to have to put his faith in the former. "Tell them Yoruichi helped me escape. Tell them she went with me."

"I don't see that she has much choice." Isshin didn't even bat an eye. "I don't think anyone can do much for her, but I have faith that you'll think of something."

Urahara just stared at him. Isshin returned the stare, then nodded his head once.

"I'll clean up here. Take them both with you and go."

Kisuke didn't bother with a chair, typing his series of passwords into the many keyboards that lay strewn in the U-shaped array. At some point he'd started to realize he needed to protect his research as much from his own division as the Noble Houses, but like many of these lessons, had come far too late in life. It was his fate to be permanently jaded from these experiences, but it was a small price to pay for the knowledge he'd recently gained.

His third seat was too cautious, and a lot of the information was backed up, in a directory his subordinate had locked. It wasn't impossible to destroy, but it would take a lot of time. He very briefly weighed the value of leaving it intact vs. deleting it.

It almost wasn't a decision. The quickest way out was the best way. Leave the data. Take the valuables.

It wasn't as if Kurotshuchi Mayuri would willingly share it. If anything, he'd be more protective of it than Urahara himself.

Another flurry of keystrokes, and with a whir and a click one of the walls between those evenly spaced antechambers started to pull itself into the ceiling. He hurried across the room, stepping down into the vault to grab a tiny, rough-sewn bag. Its weight was correct and slightly warm in his hands, but he tore it open anyway, staring at the contents only a moment, just to confirm.

Then he plucked the gem out of the bag and placed it into an inner pocket in his kimono.

It was just as safe there as the bag. As the vault. As inside a soul.

"Tch. You left the door open."

Urahara glanced at the vault, but left it as it was. "One less lie," he tried.

"Hmph," Isshin responded.

He took a mental inventory of the things he had moved to the real world, glancing around the lab for anything pocket-sized that might help him.

"What went wrong?"

Again, the man's eyes were on that yellow blanket. That hadn't made so much as a sound again, not even stirred against his breast. If not for the constant attention he was paying to that reiatsu, he never would have known she was still alive.

What went wrong indeed. A thousand things. The fact that she'd said yes in the first place.

It was the only way he could have kept himself and the Hougyoku in the Seireitei. If she had been the one to conceal it.

It made perfect sense. She was extremely powerful. Extremely alert. The noblest of the nobles, constantly watched by her ever-staunch Secret Mobile Corps and her fervently loyal subordinate Soi Fong. Even if someone had realized that he'd hidden the Hougyoku in a soul – and that was the only place to effectively hide it, real world or not – they'd be hard-pressed to pin down that princess.

But as strong as Yoruichi was, she was not powerful enough to withstand the spirit drain such a merge would put on her. Eventually, probably in less than a century, she would have been noticeably weaker. Maybe not permanently, but noticeably enough that hiding it within her for the long-term wasn't possible.

He told himself he really would have absorbed it himself if he could trust someone else to continue the research. He told himself he'd surrender his power to keep that thing safe and intact. It was the only weapon that could save Soul Society from the others that worked, even now, on the same train of thought.

That was why, ultimately, she'd accepted his proposition. She knew he could hide items within souls and reclaim them without much besides a terrifying but temporary hole in the chest of the container soul. A little boost to her reiatsu, and she could have held it for him for two hundred or more years without showing the effects.

"I don't know," he admitted, surprised that the words shook a little. Now, of all times, before he was even safe –

"That's a problem," Isshin observed.

"I think her zanpaktou resisted at the last second." He didn't mean to phrase it that way, make it sound like she hadn't really mastered her Koukuuneko. Make it sound as though her bankai was not complete and total cooperation of her zanpaktou. "If someone permanently absorbs their zanpaktou in final release it grants a huge, permanent boost in spirit power."

Or, at least, that had been the idea.

"I can see that," Isshin said drily, and Kisuke closed his eyes.

"Why did her form change?"

He didn't ask into what.

From the name of her zanpaktou and the size and sound of the bundle, he supposed it was apparent. Koukuuneko. Flying Cat. Yoruichi had become the image of her zanpaktou's manifestation. The tiny, flickering life in his arms, inside that yellow blanket, was no longer the long-legged, graceful woman with the dark skin and bright eyes. Before his eyes, she'd arched her back, flashed a terrific wave of reiatsu, and in the crater where she had once stood, this form was all that had been left.

When at first he'd laid eyes on her, he thought that perhaps her zanpaktou had absorbed her, and not the other way around.

"I believe that was a symbol of her zanpaktou's resistance."

He had sent Tessai-fukataichou into the real world as soon as he'd returned from his private lab back to Seireitei. They'd found a place there months ago, even procured some of the current time's money to buy a little shop. It was a place to live, and located in a very good part of town to continue research without drawing unnecessary attention.

That particular area was usually under the 13th Division, and he didn't think Ukitake was going to search too hard for him. Even if that part of his plan had somehow unraveled as well, he doubted Tsukabishi Tessai would have to resort to lethal, 90-level kidou. But at least he knew the man was prepared.

Prepared to die without ever looking in the blanket. Without ever questioning him.

So many were willing to die without questioning authority. He wondered if they weren't the wiser.

"Come with us, Isshin." He was still bent over a keyboard, inputting a few more commands, but he fixed his old friend with a piercing look.

"There's nothing more for you here in Soul Society."

The captain was back, a little, it was a set to his shoulders that gave him away. "I have my division, Kisuke."

"Your division will discover the truth, sooner or later," he noted as gently as he could.

Isshin didn't look at him. "That doesn't matter. I got to captain without them. Not in time to rub it in my father's face . . ." He let it trail off ruefully. "But it's enough."

"If it's worry for your Clan that keeps you here-"

"I disowned them." It was a little harder.

"Yes, so you did. In the wisdom of an adolescent, you threw off your family name, took the name Kurosaki, and marched out to Rukongai. You've always been a wanderer at heart, Isshin. The real world holds the same opportunity."

Isshin looked up sharply, and Urahara quickly looked back at a monitor.

"What did you say?"

He debated mincing words, then discarded the notion. It was his last card, he might as well lay it out. "She'll be born again into the real world, Isshin. No one knows when, but as a shinigami in a gigai, you could wait however long it took-"

"I can wait here." It wasn't just his shoulders, now. Everything about him was tight, even the muscles of his jaw.

Urahara looked at him. "But why? I can give you an untraceable gigai-"

"That permanently destroys my reiatsu?" Isshin snorted. "I wouldn't be able to wait forever, then, would I." There was clear warning that Kisuke had stepped well out of the boundaries by mentioning her at all.

Kisuke dropped his eyes as though insulted. "I have perfected that technique," he said, a little admonishingly. "The untraceable gigais no longer damage a shinigami's reiatsu. It wouldn't take long to create it."

He didn't dare raise his eyes right away, knowing he was on very thin ice. Kurosaki's wife had died five years ago last month, a victim of a Hollow. She hadn't been the most powerful female shinigami in the class, but she hadn't been a slouch either. And for Kurosaki she hung the moon every night. They'd been married only about sixty years before that mission, against one of the Hollows he knew had been modified. Kisuke liked to tell himself he'd doubled his work in modsoul research in response to it. There was no doubt it had given him a fighting chance to prove to Yamamoto that the problem was real.

Isshin had been devastated, but had taken the rather healthy approach that since she had not been consumed, sooner or later her essence was going to head back to the real world to live again. No one really knew how much time that would take, or where she would appear. She'd certainly not bring with her her memories as a shinigami, her appearance and even her personality might not be the same as Isshin remembered. A person was shaped by their life experiences, even in death, and contemporarily life in the real world was far different than it had been when she'd first died. Isshin didn't care. He believed they were soul-mates, and he would wait however long, accept any changes, to have his love back in his arms.

But while Kurosaki Isshin may have cast aside his familial name, and all the benefits that came with being a noble, he still cared deeply for his siblings. And he had fought hard to become captain without 'cheating,' as he called it – relying on his noble blood and heritage to open doors that wouldn't be open to him otherwise. He always made his own way, even as a young boy. He wanted to earn what he had on his own merits, and he had worked hard for that captaincy. It wouldn't be the end of the world if Isshin did not join them, but it would be . . . welcome.

He would welcome the company. Yamamoto-sama had a very long memory, and he wasn't sure how successfully he could keep this research – and the Hougyoku – safe. If he were successful, it would be many long centuries before Soul Society called upon him, and the research they had so disgustedly forbidden, to help them combat their enemies.

He was hanging onto that certainty for dear life. That certainty, and that nigh-cold rippling of blue reiatsu.

"Hey, Kisuke?"

He glanced up, making out the pores and dark hairs in the skin of the fingers that had suddenly, inexplicably formed a fist that was far too near his face to dodge.

He went flying, protectively curling around Yoruichi to cushion the shock to her. She didn't cry out again, but as he landed very squarely on a badly placed elbow, he considered doing it in her stead.

"You son of a bitch," Isshin murmured.

He uncurled himself with some effort, wriggling his jaw even as he watched his friend with more cautious eyes. It was what he deserved for daydreaming.

"You knew it would be me to be sent. That's why you timed this experiment with the festival. You knew I'd be avoiding Kuukaku and Kaien. And you knew Yoruichi – for god's sake, Shihouin Yoruichi! – would accept your experiment without question, try something you knew might not work. You knew she had trust in you."

Kisuke got to his feet carefully. He didn't protest, didn't contradict.

"She's nearly dead in your arms, held against your heart, and you try to talk about love. She's almost died for you today, but you'll have me lie in her stead, lie to her near-sister to keep Soi Fong off your back. Break that girl's heart so you're not inconvenienced."

He met Isshin's eyes, but still said nothing.

The other shinigami was almost vibrating with rage. "Yamamoto-sama knew you were playing with souls again, Kisuke. He personally asked you to desist. He won't forget this, no matter how many lies I spin for you. How many of us are you going to draw into your exile? Tessai? Yoruichi? Me? Anyone else, while you're at it? You seem to be on a roll."

He shifted the blanket again, making sure he wasn't pinning the tiny black cat too closely to his chest.

"If I find her, I'll send word."

He stepped towards the other man, not expecting Isshin to give ground. He wasn't disappointed. But the other taichou didn't reach out, didn't try to stop him. He walked directly past the one General Yamamoto had sent to stop him without obstacles.

"Hey. Kisuke."

He didn't turn, but he did stop at the foot of the stairs.

"You're going to send word a hell of a lot sooner than that."

He put his right hand on the rail, feeling the cold stone he himself had melted to make the facility. "I won't let her die." They both knew he wasn't referring to Isshin's late wife.

The briefest of pauses. "You're damn right you won't."

The voice was closer – Isshin had taken his feet, and was directly behind him.

"And no one's going to believe Yoruichi helped you unless all three of my men get hit with shunpo so fast they don't recognize it. So get out of my way."

He hesitated before he moved aside, and Shiba Isshin stepped forward, shoulder to shoulder with him.

"I'll take you as far as West Rukongai. And I'm holding you to your word. You find my wife, you owe me a decent, untraceable gigai."

He reached out a hand, laid it ever so gently on the yellow blanket. Urahara wasn't even sure that Isshin could feel the outline of her through the fabric. He knew she wouldn't want anyone to see her like this. "Live, Yoruichi. Live and kick the ass of this sorry excuse for a friend we have."

And then he was gone, up the stairs, through the door despite the fact that the locks hadn't withdrawn.

The problem with Kurosaki Isshin was that he didn't have the same problem as most shinigami with huge reiatsues. He didn't pay attention to such niceties as opening doors before proceeding through doorways.

Fin

**Author's Notes**: (Edited) I apparently confused WAY too many readers, judging by my inbox. So this chapter has been edited to clarify the points that seemed to have been too vague. Kurosaki (Shiba) Isshin will be dealt with in his own chapter, because we still have to answer the question of why he'd only not been a shinigami for 20 years when no one seemed to draw the correlation between a previous captain and Ichigo The Scary Ryoka. (Wow. I just worded that very, very badly.)

Also, the edits make Kisuke seem a little less of a bastard. ;)

So thank you all for your comments, and your help with this chapter! Teach me to try to confuse you guys . . . and I'm still squeeing at the feedback! (:squees happily:)


	6. Kurosaki Isshin

Kurosaki Isshin was afraid.

He was also a little sore.

He kept the goofy grin on his face until long after Ichigo's back disappeared. Without a backwards glance, and with the charm clutched in his hand. When the already quiet slap of his sneakers against the pavement finally disappeared altogether, Isshin let it slide away, and reached out quietly, following his son though he never took a step after him.

It was time to let him go.

In a way, it was time to let them all go.

Still he stood there, in the quiet darkness of the street, watching other reiatsu join Ichigo's. None were even close to his spiritual strength, of course – and the Quincy signature almost made him guffaw – but they all shared a resolution.

They all shared that young, wonderful surety that being right meant they would win.

And he couldn't blame that on this world, the living world, the real world. Sure, it was crammed down their throats in the schools, the cartoons, the books and manga and songs on the radio. Justice prevailed against the unseen, dark bad guys and good triumphed over evil.

When they were older and went to scarier movies, he supposed they'd learn that sometimes evil was far too powerful to defeat. Sometimes evil was necessary. Sometimes it overwhelmed justice and resolve and life.

He felt the corner of his mouth turn upwards. It was rather ungracious of him to think of Urahara Kisuke as a great evil.

And it wasn't as though Soul Society were any more lax about convincing its shinigami that justice was the most powerful weapon.

He knew without asking where Ichigo was going. He hadn't needed a hell butterfly to know it had to do with Kuchiki Rukia. He'd known, limit or not, the second Kuchiki Byakuya had stepped into the real world, and privately he supposed he owed Kisuke for saving Ichigo's life. Not that it was beyond him, but it had prevented a certain rather unpleasant conversation.

And it had saved him having to dust off his advanced kidou.

He wondered, idly, what would happen if he followed.

Not that it was his place to. The heavens knew how he would have reacted if his father had followed him.

Probably worse than he'd reacted when his father had said "I forbid you."

It was a mistake he refused to make. Which had lead, very directly, to his sore face and the fact that he was standing, alone, outside of his home in Karakura, watching the soul of his son make its way to the Urahara shop. Where he would be transported via that old pervert's gate directly to west Rukongai.

Transported directly towards the threat that had made Kisuke retreat in the first place.

He understood why, of course. He didn't like it in the slightest, and he almost rather wished the blonde had asked permission, but he probably would have allowed Ichigo to choose this path even if his opinion had been asked. It wasn't as if either of them could go. Even if they went together, as powerful as they were, they would be bound. Possibly as they had bound Baishin before. And that wasn't in anyone's best interest.

Their front lines, as they stood, were rather sparse. Perhaps Ichigo and his friends could change that.

Or perhaps they could die.

Kurosaki Isshin glanced back at his clinic, and the living space above it. It would be morning soon enough, and while it was rather fun, in a perverse sort of way, to stand in the street watching reiraku, it wasn't the best use of his time.

And his face really did hurt. Gigai or not, he should probably be a little more careful with it.

Karin and Yuzu were still asleep, having blissfully missed that little encounter. Thanks to his little white lie, Ichigo hadn't been paying the slightest attention, but he really wasn't sure Karin would have missed the significance of the charm. He couldn't really tell how much of her power she was allowing herself to use, and it wasn't as though he were going to discuss it with her until he had no other choice.

They were still too young.

He rubbed the back of his neck slowly, working his fingers into the tense muscles of his gigai. He also wasn't sure if Ichigo's modsoul had sensed the presence of his. Tucked safely in a jar of stale, dusty, fish-flavored candy, it was extremely unlikely anyone was going to locate it, but it still gave off a tiny amount of spirit pressure.

It was getting harder to keep up the act. He wasn't really sure how much longer he could do it.

God. He'd never really thought this through.

The house was oddly empty without Ichigo's constant spirit pressure filling up the nooks and crannies of their home. A little lonely, even. He walked across the living room into the kitchen, pulling down a sake decanter and reaching for the cabinet above the refrigerator. The bottle was still there, but surprisingly not even dusty.

Ah. Yuzu had found it, then. She hadn't mentioned it.

He smiled at the thought of her, curled up in the her bed. She looked like she had six years ago when she slept. The same young face, relaxed and happy in sleep. Without pain. So unlike her fraternal twin.

He knew if he snuck upstairs right now, he would find Karin's face scrunched in an unhappy grimace. She spent all her waking time denying her emotions, and so sleep was her soul's only time to freely express itself.

He methodically filled a pot of water from the tap and placed it on the gas burner, letting it heat while he carefully filled the decanter. When the water had just begun to breathe steam, he placed the filled decanter into the water, so that about an inch of the neck of the decanter was above the surface. He waited until the true aroma of the sake filled that steam, and then he withdrew the decanter. He took the pot off the stove, and reached up again into the cabinet, this time to snag a single sake bowl.

Then he carried his treasures into the family room, and settled onto the couch before Masaki.

The memorial poster concept had been a little weird, at first. He had been far more accustomed to the idea of a small portrait, either painted or a photograph, placed alone in a single cabinet. It allowed private time with the image, and allowed one to lock it away, out of sight, when it was too painful to look upon.

The poster, on the other hand, was enormous, usually placed in an area of heavy traffic, and impossible to cover or ignore. It also placed the image in a position to oversee day to day activities rather than single glimpses of the lives that had been left behind. It had been that concept that had really attracted him to the idea, despite protest from their children.

It was painful to look on her, sometimes.

But some pain, like the pain in his face right now, was good pain.

He raised the bowl to the image, enjoying the aroma of the alcohol before he brought it to his lips. This particular bottle had been waiting a long time, and while it hadn't been aging in the vats, it was still very good. Better than he remembered the last bottle.

Or the bottle before that.

He let it roll over his tongue, savoring it. This wasn't a sweet sake, the bottle was labeled +1 which he supposed indicated it was a little on the dry side. It was the closest thing he had found to the sake back there. It was also worth noting that it was possibly the most expensive sake in Japan. It seemed everyone else had also realized it had a particular, rare flavor.

Though he supposed, with different types of rice, you were going to get different flavors.

And he wasn't looking for sweet. Every time he'd opened one of these bottles, it had been to say farewell.

The first bottle he'd consumed about twenty years ago, when he'd gotten back. It had been most apparent to him then that it wasn't the same, since he'd just consumed the real thing not long before. Didn't have the same depth, the same warmth. Didn't bring the same comfort. But he hadn't said anything, since Masaki had searched high and low for something that would appeal to his odd tastebuds. That had been before the clinic had had a reasonable clientele, and the fact that she'd spent so much money on a single bottle of solace for him . . .

As though her presence hadn't been worth so much more.

He watched her in the darkness, the low light stealing the color away from the poster. It was at these moments he was almost certain eyes were looking back out of that poster at him. Sometimes they were reproachful. Sometimes they were sad.

More often than not, they were as they should have been. Laughing at him.

He refilled the bowl, knowing that he had a long night of drinking ahead of him. Sake didn't really keep once the seal was broken, which meant the taste and color would slowly diminish. Not as significantly as if he'd kept it on the counter, in sunlight; he doubted Yuzu would let it sit untouched long enough to become nikkou-shuu.

But it was already a not-quite-equal replacement for something he'd left behind.

"He's gotten very good at dodging," he said aloud. He'd started to do it because he'd been so appalled at the change in the family that he'd felt he had to do something. To make the girls feel as though their mother was still a part of their lives. She wasn't really gone. Even if most families couldn't rejoin one another once they passed back into Soul Society, he was sure as hell going to make sure his did. So there was no reason for them to be so very devastated.

After all, it wasn't as though they'd lost her permanently. He would continue the circle of finding and losing her, just as she did with him.

He just couldn't explain that to her children, at least not at that age. So he'd talked to the poster as though it were a portal directly to her ears. And their children had decided that he was insane.

They weren't too far off the mark, and so he didn't mind that he now seemed to talk to the poster involuntarily. It was a habit, like many others he'd affected to give a certain impression, that had finally become a part of him.

And perhaps one of them, for a lark, would actually find her and bring her to visit. So she could laugh at him for talking to a piece of paper and a pile of ink.

It wasn't too unlikely, despite the exile.

He sipped the sake slowly, enjoying the warmth and relaxing into the couch. Ichigo's reiatsu was hidden but not yet gone; Urahara would be explaining things by now. Or, knowing him, not explaining most of it. Poor kids were going to have to go through Urahara's Senkaimon without the benefit of hell butterflies. But it shouldn't be a problem. They were young, and all were pretty fast.

And if he wasn't mistaken, he'd also sensed Shihouin Yoruichi, and he knew that she was plenty fast. If nothing else she could bodily haul them through if she had to.

He hadn't seen her in quite some time. Some part of him was still angry that she hadn't been at Kaien-otouto's funeral. He knew it was rather silly – god knew Kukaku had forgiven her for this a long time ago. Perhaps she'd snuck back into the Seireitei sometime between then and now and apologized. And either way, his younger sister hadn't been too concerned with the attendance that particular day.

She'd been a little more concerned about Ganju.

He'd been a kid, though he wasn't now. The last image she'd sent of him had been staggering. He'd never seen a soul age so quickly. Nor had he looked anything like his older brother. Then again, he supposed he looked nothing like Kukaku. As children, they'd joked that they were really the bunben-bouya's offspring. This had sent their father into a rage and had caused innumerable servants to be dismissed, but there were always more, ready to serve the Shiba Clan.

He frowned at the sake bowl, shaking his head. That was another mistake he hoped he wasn't repeating. Paving the way for Ichigo, granting him favors or opening doors. Ichigo needed to know that he didn't need a name to do that, didn't need a father to do that. He could open any door he wanted with his own merit.

God help him if anyone was smart enough to link him to Ichigo.

Hopefully the smart ones would keep it to themselves.

Old man Yamamoto had done a pretty bang-up job of striking the name of 'Kurosaki' from most of the records. Isshin liked to think he hadn't done it out of spite, but there was no doubt in anyone's mind that he'd deeply hurt the older man. Sadly, it wasn't the first betrayal of his most loved students, and it wouldn't be the last.

Much like his father, Yamamoto-sama believed that justice and resolve were the strongest weapons, and that good would always triumph over evil.

Not a bad philosophy, so long as you could properly identify 'good' and 'evil.'

"You are lying."

He'd stood his ground, staring Yamamoto-Genryūsai Shigekuni-taichou in the eye. He knew the taichou of the ichibantai could bring him to his knees without visible effort, but it seemed that averting them would be even more dishonorable than what he'd already done.

"You are allied with Urahara Kisuke?"

And what had there been to say to that? "Hai, taichou."

The standard response of a student and subordinate seemed to incense the already smoldering general.

"Then shall you rejoice in the knowledge that you will join him?"

Aah, exile. That was no surprise. At least the lies had bought Kisuke enough time to completely hide himself in the living world. He didn't really know how much Yamamoto had realized was a lie, and how much he was going to reveal. If he realized what had happened to Shihouin Yoruichi, he would order Soi Fong to captain both corps and take the world apart to find Urahara. At the very least, he might hope that Isshin would lead them to Kisuke.

Luckily, he'd specifically not asked where the other man had chosen his home. And Urahara had specifically not told him.

"Are you certain you wouldn't like me to stay in the Senzaikyuu for a while to think on my mistakes?"

The general's eyes flashed briefly before narrowing.

"Why do you seek to anger me, Isshin?"

He supposed he was, in a way. He stood before his old senpai rather than kneeling, demonstrating that he did not regret. His face was unshaven, eyes open, wearing a wide smile. He had brushed away the formality and severity of the language, not even apologizing.

He should. He did feel regret, for breaking the old man's trust. There just wasn't any other way. As angry as what Kisuke had done made him, he knew it was right. There were weirdly powerful Hollows out there, there was a complacency about the nobles and seated shinigami, there was an arrogant belief that this mighty castle, the Seireitei, was lily-white and indestructible.

If anyone really was working on a way to cross shinigami powers with those of Hollows, they would need to be dealt with. This army didn't show any signs of changing, while the enemy's did.

Briefly he considered painting the Senzaikyuu black before he left. Just to make the point.

"I do not seek to anger you, sensei," he finally responded, noting that his tone had lost its lightness. "I seek to protect the Seireitei and the living world as I failed to protect my wife. Saving souls is the primary duty of a shinigami taichou. You taught us that."

"Betraying your colleagues is not the path I taught you," the ancient man responded, disappointment hollowing his voice. "Your deceit has cost the Seireitei greatly. Your deceit has endangered living souls. I cannot fathom why you refuse to see this."

Putting the Hougyoku in the living world was, admittedly, a bad idea. Leaving it in Soul Society was worse. Where did they expect him to put it? Hueco Mundo?

"I too am confused, by your unwillingness to address this threat," he countered. "Why would you discourage the pursuit of knowledge? Sooner or later it will be studied, regardless of a ban. Why delay something that could help -"

The old man didn't move for some time, and when he spoke again, his eyes were closed.

"A young child is curious of fire. A parent can keep them from touching the flames, but the parent cannot always be present. Would you discourage this as no more than a delay of pain and injury?"

"That child would discover that flames are hot enough to forge steel and tools," he answered.

"Are children to forge weapons above all else?"

"Children wish to protect their parents."

Yamamoto's eyes opened, calm once again. "You took the name Kurosaki from whom?"

Isshin blinked, not sure where the question was going. "When I disowned the Shiba Clan I left for Rukongai. I was taken in that evening in the 76th district by a gentle man named Kurosaki Tigei. He took in other wandering souls that same night, though he had little."

"And as little as he had, you took his name."

"I wished to be like him." Yamamoto-sama made it sound as though it had been robbery.

"You have repaid him by dishonoring his name, as you dishonored your father's," the old general noted. His voice was heavy, but not angry. It was more a statement of fact than an accusation.

"My father dishonored us," Isshin snapped. "As do most of the nobles."

"You are one of those nobles," Yamamoto said slowly. "And it is as you say."

Isshin stared at him.

"I will have the name Kurosaki struck from the records," he continued. "You had no cause to dishonor that name and family, and they should not suffer for your mistakes. From henceforth, you will be referred to in record with your true name, as you have remained loyal to it."

Isshin opened his mouth, but something in the older man's expression made him close it again.

"You will stand trial for your crimes before the Central 46 as Shiba Isshin," the general declared. "And we will place our faith in Shiba Kaien, that he might restore the glory of your House."

He might have, too, if he hadn't died.

Killed, in a roundabout way, by a Hollow created by Aizen Sousuke. Just like his wife.

Twice.

He really needed to get around to meeting this Aizen fellow.

He supposed he could possibly blame Jyuushiro or his shinigami for Kaien's death. One had allowed him to enter that fight and continue it without aiding, and the other had been holding the blade he'd died upon. Between that ruling from Yamamoto and Kaien's death, it was no wonder Kukaku didn't want to see another shinigami as long as she lived.

Another reason she wouldn't let Ganju join the academy, even if he wanted to.

And she sure as hell hadn't been happy to see him twenty years ago.

He had dishonored her. There was no getting around that.

Masaki was still smiling at him, and he smiled back as he filled the bowl again. He should have left the pot on the stove; he could get another two full decanters out of that bottle, and he had only a few short hours before daylight.

At least he didn't have anything serious planned for the clinic day tomorrow.

He hadn't had any serious plans for quite some time.

"You can't seriously be considering this," Urahara had said slowly, eyes hidden beneath that ridiculous green and white hat.

Isshin had just looked at him. "You knew him well. You should come."

Urahara sat comfortably on a folded mat, across the small table from him. "Your zanpaktou was removed from the registry, just like Benihime."

He felt a cocky smile on his face, but it didn't seem to belong to his thoughts. "Did you ever check, Kisuke-san? I never did."

Urahara had actually laughed. "I see your point, Isshin-san."

He'd been planning to pick up his new gigai when the hell butterfly had come. He had been nothing but smiles ever since. Had convinced his fiancée, his beloved Masaki, that he would be attending the funeral alone. It gave him three days to find a way into the Seireitei and at least show his support to Kukaku.

He would save his tears for the ones that deserved them.

"Have it ready when I return," he said, taking his feet. He had had a feeling Kisuke would decline, and he actually didn't really blame his old friend. He was risking everything for this trip, but his everything only included his soul mate and his freedom. The moment he stepped out of this gigai it would be detectable, radiating a tiny bit of his reiatsu without control, which meant Urahara would have to immediately destroy it.

What Kisuke would risk, going to back to Soul Society, would be his freedom and the Hougyoku. While he personally felt that Masaki was fifty billion trillion quazillion times more valuable, he had a feeling Urahara would disagree.

He had been in that gigai for close to eighty years. Only ten years ago he'd moved to Karakura, completely on a whim, because his non-aging face was attracting too much attention in Hiroshima. And he'd finally felt comfortable enough with his new life to retake the name Kurosaki. He had gone to school to learn the ins and outs of the human body, and coupled with surreptitious use of kidou, he was an excellent healer.

Well, doctor, he supposed, was his title. And he'd opened a small clinic so there wouldn't be as much attention this time. His plan had been to help the locals, and those too poor to afford the high costs of the hospitals. To take in those wandering souls and give them what he had, even if it was little.

He had had no idea that he would find her here. He had also had no idea that this was where Urahara had decided to make his home.

But he knew, exactly, what both those coincidences meant.

She'd taken the name Masaki, this reincarnation, another M name. And she was just as beautiful. He'd recognized her instantly, as he had known he would, and she had been immediately drawn to his handsome manliness.

Okay, so he'd made a jackass of himself. But she'd loved it.

He risked that by going back.

He had been exiled by the Central 46. He'd been ordered to Rukongai, but had chosen to come back to the living world. It had been exactly like Kisuke had thought. The moment his name had been revealed as Shiba, Soul Society had nothing left to offer him.

It was as though all the work he had done was for naught.

And that was what he would reduce this new life to, if he were captured.

So don't get captured.

He stepped out of the gigai as quickly as he could, though it accentuated the agony of separation. He'd grown into that gigai far too closely. It had bones, blood vessels, the interior was exactly his shape and the air on his long-protected skin was far too harsh and cold. He groaned as his face tore free, and wondered if that was how a Hollow felt when they pulled their mask off for the first time.

A sixty-level kidou blast disintegrated the gigai before he was completely sure he'd really been totally free of it.

He met Kisuke's cool eyes, and wondered if the time would come when his friend would choose to pay a debt with his life.

"One of the improvements is better synchronization with less pain," Kisuke said pleasantly. "Particularly for long-term use. It won't damage your reiatsu, either."

"Hah," he'd retorted, and pulled free his zanpaktou.

It had been a very long time since he'd felt that familiar hilt, and he grinned as he put a little spirit pressure through the blade, and stabbed at the air in front of him.

A glowing set of sliding doors appeared, looking none the worse for the past 80 years to have passed, and when they slowly opened, a hell butterfly flitted out of the blinding light.

Still black and white. Seireitei always would be.

Kisuke had smiled a little at that. "It seems you still have friends, Isshin-san."

He knew. He knew that for that one day, someone had gone in and removed the ban on his zanpaktou. Probably the same one that had sent the hell butterfly. Someone who knew he would do whatever it took to be at his brother's funeral.

He wanted to believe it was Yamamoto, but he never knew. He'd just stepped through, finding himself where he wanted to be. Standing in Rukongai. Standing, rather unfortunately, in his shinigami robes, with his hated haori as it had always been, mostly wrapped around his arm much like his fukataichou badge had once been.

It got in the way less. Seemed less formal. Allowed him to interact with other shinigami as a soul rather than as a captain.

He knew he'd been seen, seen and not reported. Jyuushiro was devastated, though they managed to avoid all the awkwardness of their respective positions and simply deal with the hole that Kaien-sama's departure had left. Kukaku had of course wanted nothing to do with the shinigami that came to pay their respects, so she didn't hear the details of his death. Most of the captains and most of the lieutenants had shown up at one point or another, out in Rukongai. Though they'd already attended the rites that the 13th Division had sponsored, they did want to show respect to the Shiba House.

Despite that, the Shiba Clan died that day. The day that Kaien died, in the rain. Ganju was too young and Kukaku too bitter. He was too exiled. He'd sat and drank with her, then come back to that new gigai, gone home to Masaki, and thought he'd put at least that part of his life to rest.

He was Kurosaki Isshin, finally.

God help him if Ichigo found out. God help him if Kukaku saw him. She knew he had a son and twin daughters, and she knew their names. She'd know immediately that Ichigo was his son, if only because he looked so much like Kaien-otouto. He wondered if maybe Masaki had been related to his mother in some crazy way.

He wasn't really sure how Urahara expected them to rescue Kuchiki Rukia, but he hoped it had nothing to do with his sister's cannon.

It would only be the captains and lieutenants that remembered the name Kurosaki. His trial had been prominent and the revelation that the ailing Shiba Clan had, in fact, a captain in the Gotei 13, had been almost as explosive as the fact that he had helped Urahara Kisuke escape before trial. He had been, very briefly, a celebrity. If he was still talked about, it would be as Shiba Isshin. Kurosaki would have become a name that tickled at the back of someone's memory without really bringing anything to light.

There was a small chance that Ichigo would return and realize nothing at all.

The poster smiled at his thoughts, and he smiled at her before slowly getting up to heat the next decanter. They'd discussed it, the fact that she could see ghosts. They'd made sure the kids hadn't felt that this was out of the ordinary, that they were freaks. Masaki was still an amazingly powerful soul, but she could not sense his reiatsu any more than a trained shinigami could. He'd made sure of it.

He glanced at the bottle as he waited for the water to warm. Dusted. He'd have to have a talk with Yuzu – if she was dusting ancient bottles in the backs of cupboards he needed to get her interested in a hobby. Soccer seemed to be doing Karin wonders.

He'd also have to remember to hide the bottle in the trash, and put the pot away before he crawled back to bed. She'd notice the bottle was missing, but hopefully she wouldn't equate it to the night her big brother left for vacation without saying goodbye.

Since the last time she'd seen one of those bottles disappear, it had been the night her mother had died.

Yuzu. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead on the wooden cupboards above the stove. Don't die, Ichigo, he thought at nothing. Your sisters will never forgive you.

Particularly not Yuzu.

She had been just as skilled at seeing ghosts as Karin when Masaki had been killed. But she'd shied away from trying to use that power, as it reminded her too much of her mother, and Karin hated it when she cried. She berated her every time she cried at her mother's grave, still. Karin was the one who would never cry and could not sleep, and Yuzu was the one that tried to fill the hole with herself.

Such a little girl, trying to fill such a big hole.

Taking on all of her mother's duties, but trying so hard to make sure everyone knew she wasn't trying to replace her.

As if anyone could replace Masaki. For any of them.

He plucked the decanter out of the hot water, watching the steam curling. Still dark. Still not morning. Maybe it was better that Masaki had left them when she had. If it had not been that Hollow, it would have been another. He hadn't purified a one of them. Couldn't. Afraid of being spotted by the shinigami assigned to the area. Afraid of drawing attention to this place.

If he was a bitter fellow, he could always blame Kisuke for her death.

But the other shinigami in exile didn't dictate his priorities. He was the one that put hiding that blasted piece of shit as high as he did. Masaki's soul could be freed once that Hollow was purified. She was consumed but not destroyed. All the souls a Hollow consumed were freed once that Hollow was purified, just like the soul of the Hollow itself.

She wasn't really gone.

And he was getting the feeling, if what Urahara had been telling Ichigo was true, that the time to hide was quickly coming to an end. He wouldn't have sent them to Soul Society unless that was where the Hougyoku was. If it was in danger. When he smuggled it back there, Isshin wasn't sure, but he was certain that their long wait was just about done.

Yamamoto-sama wouldn't be able to prevent his children from putting their hands in the fire forever.

And neither could he.

He just wished it could have come a little later. Ichigo might be ready, but Yuzu and Karin were not. And as important as Soul Society was, his daughters were living souls. And he was going to protect them.

Even if it meant letting Ichigo go.

He returned to the living room, putting the newly warmed decanter on the table and taking the time to study the line of Masaki's eyebrows. They'd done a very good job with the poster, captured things about her he wasn't sure other people could see.

She might not have been in complete command of her powers, but this night, she would have sensed the very second Ichigo left the living world. She would have felt his presence disappear and known in her heart of hearts that her dearly beloved son was gone.

It was not a feeling Isshin was looking forward to experiencing. But at least he was here, experiencing it with her.

He closed his eyes, waiting patiently for that dear, dear reiatsu to vanish.

Fin


	7. Zaraki's Kenpachi

_If you hadn't seen it, here it is: Don't own Bleach. Making no money. Do not sue. Instead, buy Bleach stuff! This chapter is rated a little harsher for language. _

- x -

Zaraki's Kenpachi was afraid.

Well, maybe not afraid. Not for himself, anyway.

Just . . . maybe worried was better. Mildly anxious, or slightly concerned. Fuck. Where the hell did this sudden vocabulary come from?

Damn brat was biting off more than she could chew.

It wasn't like it was the first time. He let her get her fair share of cuts and scrapes for her mistakes. Couldn't learn no other way. He let her pick opponents out of her league. Sometimes she surprised him. Sometimes she didn't. He snorted at her when she won, and patched her up when she needed it.

And she tried to do the same for him. Except she was just so damn small. She was still a baby.

A baby with a zanpaktou.

A zanpaktou with flowers as a hilt guard.

But, possibly worse than the flowers were the wheels.

Her zanpaktou's sheath had wheels.

Well, he'd figured, staring at it disbelievingly the first time she'd manifested it, the damn thing was more than half her height. And she was still a damn kid. Made sense that she couldn't carry something that big at her waist or on her shoulder. He didn't want her getting all hunch-backed like those hags back in Rukongai.

Heh. A pink-haired hag.

At more than half her height, he supposed it was a big fucking sword. It just didn't have quite the same reach as the katanas that hung from the men staring at her.

In disbelief.

"Waaai! Ken-chan! They don't understand Japanese!"

She didn't even turn to look at him. Didn't turn to make sure he was there. In fact, he'd only now caught up to her. Of course, he was pretty sure, if this really was the place, that just about everyone they encountered should have some spirit pressure, and he couldn't have announced himself any better if he'd been bellowing. It wasn't like she had to look to make sure he was there.

But it woulda been nice. One of these days, he wasn't gonna be.

One of these days, that little, angry, pink-haired girl in the too-short, too-ragged kimono was going to be her own strong little person.

One of these days, he'd hear Yachiru say goodbye.

He casually drew his zanpaktou and leaned it up against his shoulder, causing the shinigami to tense. Two of them were sweating profusely, and the third looked as though he was ready to pass out on the spot.

"Yeah they do. They're just stupid."

He had expected better, but he was getting used to disappointment. All the decent opponents had run to this place – where the hell were they now? The three guys in front of Yachiru didn't even have equal spirit pressure to her. Combined. And they were supposed to prevent anyone from marching through those big, white gates behind them?

Che. What the hell was Yachiru waiting for? Permission?

He'd barely looked the place over as he'd sauntered after her. Dashing was out of the question – she was just too damn fast. Freakishly fast. And she was only going to get faster with age. If he really, really wanted to, he could probably still outpace her. But he figured he was the only one. And it wasn't worth the effort. It wasn't as though she could get herself in over her head, right?

He was wondering if maybe that assumption had been a little wrong.

Oh, they didn't need to worry about these three 'admission specialists.' Probably the bottom of the barrel, assigned to inspect the reiatsu of the trash from Rukongai as a punishment for being weak and useless. They even stood in front of a little white room, probably supposed to look all impressive and shit. Apparently, since Yachiru seemed unwilling to simply blow past them, it meant something to her.

When the hell had she learned about authority? It wasn't like he acted like her brother or father or nothin'. Wasn't like he paid any attention to laws.

What he was payin' attention to now was the fact that those huge, white walls behind that stupid little hut were blocking spirit pressure.

And now that he was standing in line of sight of that open gate, he was very, very sure that these three were the bottom of the barrel. Because what he sensed inside was . . . well, he could sense something inside.

Him. The one who couldn't sense spirit pressure if it bit him on the ass. He could barely sense Yachiru, and he was pretty sure that was only because she was usually a growth off his back instead of a separate person. He couldn't really sense those guys in front of her at all.

He could sense people through those gates, though. A lot of 'em.

And if he could sense them, they could sense him.

If Yachiru went plowing through these three and tearing in there, there was no telling what she was going to come across.

And even if it was over her head, it promised to be a good time.

It, of course, was the famed Seireitei, the Court of Pure Souls, the great white castle where the muckity-mucks celebrated their superiority over all the other souls that had come to Soul Society. Unless you were a shinigami or born into a noble family, it was entirely off limits. There was housed the army of Death Gods, and the Gotei 13, rumored to be the thirteen strongest souls in Soul Society.

And that was a rumor worth checking into.

"I . . wanna be . . . a shinigami!" She repeated it slowly, clearly, and loudly.

The one that had been considering collapsing made his decision and did so.

Not surprisingly, this made Yachiru giggle with delight, and in the next moment the two still standing drew their zanpaktou.

At least, he figured that's what they were. They didn't look like much more than a basic katana. They even had the same hilts, which he thought was a little weird. The guys didn't look like twins. One was a dark-haired, muscular man and the other was brown-haired with a huge widow's peak and a hook nose that looked like it had been smashed in and popped back out a few times.

It had been his experience that zanpaktou were all individual.

Since, thank god, his wasn't covered in flowers or some shit.

She giggled again, and without bothering to draw her own, she lightly leapt up onto the closer man, standing on his widow's peak with her little bared toes pointing slightly inward.

She liked her feet bare. She liked her everything bare, actually, but he'd figured out some time ago that this was probably not a good idea. He'd been scrounging for clothes for her ever since. And it wasn't like it was easy, neither – she was too small to get any use out of the clothes of the idiots they had to kill, and he wasn't accustomed to walking into a store and buying things. And forget trying to get her to stand still long enough to see if something actually fit.

No, this last kimono had been a gift from an old guy they'd passed in the 23rd district. It had replaced the tattered brown sack she'd been wearing prior. And since it was pink, she was inordinately pleased with it, and wore it even though it was now far too small. It barely even covered her knees.

It didn't matter to her. She'd been talking non-stop about the new robes she'd be getting as a shinigami.

Shinigami this. Shinigami that. He'd never seen her so single-mindedly interested in anything. Since about the 60th district, when she'd watched a little skirmish between Kenpachi and a couple idiot young shinigami, she'd wanted nothing else.

Che. As if he needed corny black and white robes to make him feel powerful. He already knew who he was. Kenpachi. Didn't need some dumbass shinigami to tell him so.

But it was true, that all the good opponents he'd encountered had all been heading here. To the Seireitei. To train up their spirit pressure and become Death gods. Save souls and slaughter Hollows and all that crap.

If not for Yachiru's unflagging interest, he'd have stormed the place just to get in a few good fights. But no. She wanted to join this academy or whatever. So he was okay with waiting. It wasn't like they wouldn't accept her – she was probably more powerful already than most of the graduated students. For sure, if these guys were a good example.

Once they let her into this stupid academy, he'd be free to go dig up his old 'friends' and see if that training did them any good.

And then he'd go find some new friends. Like the ones he could sense, apparently coming closer to the gate.

Yachiru was bent at the waist, looking down at the eyes that belonged to the head under her feet.

"Oo, Pointy-Forehead Man, your zanpaktou is awfully small," she observed seriously. "Wanna see mine?"

Damn. She was going to nickname every single one of these morons.

The guy she was standing on was too stunned to move, but his buddy took the initiative and a swipe at her. She leapt away easily, jumping onto his outstretched arm, and from there somersaulted back to the ground.

"I think they're mad, Ken-chan."

He frowned, not taking a step forward or his sword off his shoulder. This was boring. "Told ya. They're stupid."

"What are you!" the first one finally managed, taking a step back as he did so. Giving ground to a little kid . . .

Kenpachi looked past him, catching a glimpse of a silhouette on the top of the wall. Just one, and he was still pretty far –

No. He wasn't far at all. He was standing between the two shinigami and Yachiru.

Kenpachi blinked, but didn't otherwise respond. That was . . . that was impossible. He'd seen a bit of a blur, and suddenly the dude was right there. But that was only a little faster than Yachiru. What was weird was that he hadn't run.

He'd been standing on the wall, and then he was standing there. His posture and position never changed. He didn't even take a stride. He just – moved.

Yachiru was startled, but only for a split second. "Oooooooo!" she squealed, and dashed up onto his shoulder to check out this new shinigami.

He was significantly more powerful than the two still standing, though he looked to be the same age. His uniform was a little different, and there was a badge with a number on it tied to his left arm. Maybe a ranking system? Indicating his strength? From this angle he couldn't really read the kanji. Hell, he'd never been too good with reading from the start. Six? Eight? Eventually the guy would tell him.

A thick black bar was tattooed across more than half his face, and it did a decent job of disguising his surprise. Despite it, he hadn't flinched, and he remained still and allowed her up-close inspection.

So he wasn't stupid. Or scared. In fact, he was almost ignoring her altogether.

His dark eyes were meeting Kenpachi's squarely.

Yachiru had put a finger in her mouth as she'd looked him up and down, from his spiky black hair to his sandals, and now she plucked it back out with a huge smile.

"Do it again! Do it again!"

He turned his head towards the little girl slightly, but never took his eyes off Kenpachi.

"Perhaps in a moment, little one."

She huffed in irritation and grabbed his face, yanking it so he had to break eye contact with Kenpachi. He snorted lightly. She hated being ignored.

"I wanna be a shinigami!" she declared hotly. "An' these guys won't say nothing!"

She had his full attention now, and Kenpachi almost shook his head as the man laughed softly.

Idiot.

"Is that so, little one. And how old are you?"

Her little face turned as pink as her hair, and she planted her hands on her hips. Her not-so-little mouth opened to start screaming at him for laughing-

And then she blinked, straightening, and popped that finger back into her mouth. After a moment, she turned and looked back at him.

"Ken-chan? How old am I?"

Good question. "Beats me," he replied, noting another arrival on the wall. Was there a walkway up there, or were they all just jumping? How many of them could do that weird moving thing? If they could do that and fight at the same time-

"Ken-chan!" She stamped her little foot, indicating this was not the answer she was looking for, and the shinigami that was playing her host turned to glance back at the other weaklings.

"It's alright. Take Iraran-san to the Fourth Division first aid station. I'll take care of this."

"Hai, fukataichou!"

Ahh. So the dumb badge did indicate rank. Lieutenant. That meant there was a captain, general, or admiral around somewhere . . . Kenpachi felt his face split into a grin. "That so, shinigami."

The shinigami's attention returned to him as the other guys scooped up their comrade and ran. So they couldn't all do that weird moving thing. Just the higher-ranking ones.

Goody.

"I'm 9th Division's fukataichou, Hisagi Shuuhei." He turned back to the girl on his shoulder, though it was clear she still only had a portion of his attention "That guy over there your father?"

Again, she went slightly cross-eyed as she thought.

"He's Ken-chan!" she finally declared, as though this would clear things up.

He was trying to fight that smile again. "And what's your name?"

"Kusajishi's Yachiru! Ken-chan named me," she added proudly.

That seemed to throw the 'fukataichou' for a minute, and he paused to consider her words. He still didn't seem that put off by her proximity to his face. And assuming not everyone was as bad as he was at detecting spirit power, that meant that this guy knew exactly how powerful that little kid was and he wasn't concerned about it.

"Now will you do that thing again?"

He schooled his features to be very solemn. "First I must speak with . . . Ken-chan."

"Okay!" She dropped off his shoulder without ado and came scampering back to him. He expected her to mount up, as it were, but instead she just stood at his feet and beamed.

"Stripey-face is really smart! And he talked to me! In Japanese!"

"Huh," he responded without really listening, and casually shifted his zanpaktou from his right shoulder to his left. The shinigami chose to ignore the movement, though his hand never strayed far from the hilt of his own.

It was nothing like the hilts of the wusses he'd seen before, and looked as though it had a slightly better reach.

It also looked like he knew how to use it.

Things were definitely looking up.

"What is your intention?" the fukataichou Shuuhei asked quietly, when he was close enough for such conversation. Kenpachi noted that whoever was on the wall was staying there for the time being, but he also had the impression that more than one pair of eyes was watching.

For not having attacked yet, they were certainly drawing a lot of attention.

"To fight," Kenpachi answered without hesitation. "You ready?"

Yachiru pouted for just a moment, realizing that there was now going to be a delay in getting her demonstration, but then she perked up as usual and scurried off to the top of the little white 'academy admissions' hut. She always loved to watch him fight. Usually she was better about picking safer places to do it, though. The white outbuilding wasn't out of the way by far, but apparently she'd noticed the shadow on the wall and wasn't feeling ready to join it just yet.

What the hell was she waiting for?

The fukataichou Shuuhei leaned back a little on his heels, though he couldn't tell if preparing to run or to fight. Or do whatever that moving thing was.

"It's rude to challenge a stranger who is being polite."

"I'm a rude sort of person."

"This I can see."

Kenpachi took that as an acceptance and brought down his blade, not surprised to see a little blur materialize into his opponent, now about twenty feet away. He was surprised to see the shinigami hadn't drawn.

"Chasing opponents is a pain," he called to the man. "Come back over here and fight."

"Entrance examinations of this sort aren't necessary," the man called back.

What the hell? That idiot was laughing at him.

"I ain't looking to become a shinigami." He started forward, as it was becoming apparent that this unwilling opponent wasn't about to return. The other shinigami had needed a little encouragement as well, so it wasn't completely unexpected.

This also seemed to startle the lieutenant. "Oh?" was all he said.

And then he raised his right hand. His zanpaktou was not in it.

"Bakudou 61: Rukujyoukourou. Luminous Prison of 6 Bars."

And, inexplicably, Kenpachi suddenly found himself surrounded with a halo of yellow light, from which it appeared shafts of the same were actually sticking into him. He could feel their presence, but they didn't hurt. What they did do was prevent him from walking. They prevented him from moving much of anything but his head.

"What the hell is this!" he roared, trying ineffectually to swipe at the light with the sword still in his hand. He could bend his arm only at the wrist, and his feet only at the ankle.

"Kidou," the fukataichou replied, and then turned his back.

Turned his back!

"I didn't peg you for a coward!" he yelled towards that back, but infuriatingly, the shinigami didn't respond. He was heading towards the little hut.

Headed for Yachiru.

She was on her feet, her expression one of outrage. "That's cheating!" she cried, pointing at Shuuhei. "You let Ken-chan go right now!"

The shinigami asked her something he couldn't hear, and he struggled harder. The bars were very brittle; they didn't give at all. They'd break, if he could just get some leverage –

"W-what?"

Her voice was much less incensed, and more confused. He strained harder against the – whatever the hell it was. Somehow it was condensed spirit pressure. A shitty way to fight.

The lieutenant said something else, and Yachiru took a step back from him.

What the hell . . .?

"No!" she said suddenly, and with one deft movement, she had hurled herself at the shinigami, zanpaktou drawn and held steadily exactly as he'd taught her.

This guy was out of her league.

And it was also his opponent.

He'd taught her better than that. One on one was the only way to duel. What had the shinigami said -?

He did his moving thing – and Yachiru followed him. Kenpachi almost forgot to struggle as he watched the shinigami in a constant state of blurred retreat, with that familiar pink blur following him. She was almost howling with rage, and every time they paused, she was just a little bit closer.

So he could keep up with her. All the higher-ranking ones could keep up with her.

Huh.

Seeing that she was holding her own, at least temporarily, he tore his attention away and stared down at the halo. So, brittle. He couldn't move much. It was actually impaling him, but there wasn't any blood. Not that it would have mattered. This fukataichou wasn't serious yet.

His mistake.

If the light was inside him, and it was brittle – Kenpachi took a deep breath, and then contracted his abdominal muscles. This brought with it pain, which was not unexpected, and he gritted his teeth as he felt his insides being crushed against the bars.

He strained harder, his teeth groaning with the effort.

And then something else was crunching.

Once one broke, they all broke.

The halo shattered when the shafts did, and he stumbled forward slightly as the bars exploded. Not hard enough to cut him, even. Not even knock him down.

What a hassle.

Locating the shinigami and Yachiru wasn't difficult. Apparently pieces of the shattering thing had at least attracted their attention, and while Yachiru broke into a happy grin, the shinigami used the opening to . . . move . . . behind her, securing her zanpaktou hand with his own, the other arm wrapped around her waist.

She was quite efficiently pinned. And none too happy about it.

She immediately bit the hand covering hers.

To his credit, the shinigami didn't even wince. Nor did he release her. He was staring at Kenpachi with stunned eyes.

"You . . ."

Kenpachi grinned. Maybe now he'd get down to business. "Yeah. Me."

And then there was another blur, and he found himself looking at a huge mound of a shinigami.

With a bucket on his head.

The shadow that had been on the white wall remained there.

Kenpachi sized up this new opponent. His uniform was also different from the standard shinigami, with a big white coat over the usual black and white layered kimonos. His zanpaktou was in proportion to his height, a hefty, thick blade that looked very good for chopping down several trees in a single pass. He was easily eight feet tall, and his gauntleted hands were large and blocky. The . . . helmet, he supposed, had narrow, long slits for seeing, and through them he could make out eyes the color of honey.

He also had enough spirit pressure for Kenpachi to sense. More than the fukataichou.

Maybe the white over-robe indicated rank as well? Or the helmet?

"I am Captain of the 7th Division, Komamura Sajin," a very deep, rough voice intoned.

Captain. One of the Gotei 13.

One of the 13 strongest souls in Soul Society.

Kenpachi's grin stretched all the way to his ears.

"You should not so welcome death," the voice admonished.

"Death is the cost of fun," he replied, and without another word launched himself at this new opponent. Size didn't matter so terribly, he knew that. He'd defeated men far bigger than he with little effort, and been nearly defeated by opponents almost as small as Yachiru.

Yachiru.

His zanpaktou whistled through the air, directly for the giant man's broad right shoulder. It was apparently too fast for even the captain to counter; he didn't draw his zanpaktou. He didn't react at all.

The blade landed squarely on its mark.

And nothing happened.

Kenpachi blinked, frozen in place. Staring.

His zanpaktou was resting on the white robed shoulder, having cleanly sliced through the fabric down to the white inner kimono. Where it had, somehow, been stopped.

No blood. No cut. No wound.

"Your zanpaktou is dull," the voice observed. "And badly damaged. What is its name?"

What the hell?

"Name?" he parroted back. Dull? Damaged?

His zanpaktou looked like it normally did. It had all manner of dings anddents from previous battles, that he'd never bothered to smooth because he couldn't find a stone hard enough to work them out. Nor had it ever needed sharpening. He could see how cleanly it had cut the fabric.

Dull? It was sharper than anything he'd encountered. Sharper than Yachiru's. Sharper than the shinigami he'd fought. Sharper than the claws of a Hollow.

Dull?

"You do not know." The voice sounded almost patronizing. "All zanpaktou have a name. You must hear it before you can accomplish shikai."

Shikai? What the hell?

He withdrew the blade from the giant's shoulder, and still the captain did not move.

"Ken-chan!"

He'd heard that tone in her voice only two other times.

Shit.

He tried another swing, harder this time, a slash across the chest.

The captain finally moved.

One of those blocky gauntlets caught his zanpaktou before it had a chance to connect, and the next second found him on his back, with a massive foot planted crushingly on his chest.

He growled, refusing to release the hilt, and tried to wedge his free hand beneath that mound of foot. The captain didn't wrest the sword from him, or increase the pressure, which was good, because he could hear his ribs creaking and drawing breath was difficult. He risked a glance towards Yachiru. Despite having bitten the other shinigami bloody, he had not released her. He was speaking with –

When the hell had she gotten there? He hadn't even noticed.

A woman with short grey hair was kneeling beside the shinigami, trying to talk to the struggling Yachiru. She didn't look very old despite the hair color, and she wore what looked like a normal uniform, except with the armband again. So the armband marked the lieutenants, not the sleeveless kimono. Yachiru wasn't listening to her, though, and was struggling for all she was worth.

And, not surprisingly, it looked like it was taking everything that fukataichou had to just hold her. She wasn't accustomed to opponents that had the strength to pin her little arms.

Neither was he.

"Ken-chan!" she cried again, the note of panic in her voice significantly more pronounced.

The shadow was also no longer on the wall.

In fact, it was walking right towards him.

And it was still a shadow. Dark skin, partially lightened by the white overcoat and an odd orange scarf that curled up on one side. His hair was bound back save a few locks, and behind goggles his eyes seemed like nothing more than white orbs.

He, too, was giving off a lot of spirit pressure.

Kenpachi just lay there and looked at him, for the first time unsure of what to do. He'd met opponents he couldn't beat before, but he'd survived, survived to get stronger. Clearly that was what he had to do here.

But Yachiru. What the hell were they trying to do with her?

"No need, my friend," the bucket said, without turning. "I believe he has realized his mistake."

The dark man said nothing, and stopped when he was shoulder to shoulder with the much larger captain.

They were probably both captains.

"You just gonna stand there?" he finally grated out. He didn't have room to yank the blade down, and no matter how he strained, he was unable to move that hand – or foot – so much as a centimeter. He was also quite efficiently pinned.

Well, fuck. Now what?

"Perhaps he does not consider violence a mistake," the shadow finally said.

"Still," the bucket said consideringly, "he shattered that kidou with nothing more than strength. That passion would be suited for the 11th Division, don't you agree?"

The shadow said nothing.

Behind them, he saw the shinigami that carried Yachiru straighten. And head for the wall.

He nodded his head sharply in their direction. "Where's he takin' her?"

"It is cowardly to attempt infiltration into the Seireitei by use of a child," the shadow said tonelessly, staring down at him. "She will be taken to a safe place, and given an education. You will not see her again."

What the . . .

Kenpachi couldn't help himself. He dropped his head to the dust and howled with laughter. He laughed until his sides ached, which didn't take long considering the massive weight pressing down on him. When he finally got his breath back, he found the two captains continuing to regard him with solemn eyes.

"I was right the first time," he rasped. "You're just stupid."

"I think perhaps we were mistaken, Tousen," the bucket intoned thoughtfully, as though nothing had interrupted their conversation. His foot shifted slightly, and Kenpachi's ribcage groaned in protest. "He seems to genuinely care for the girl."

"Then why the deception?"

"You think I tried to use the brat to get inside the walls?" Oh, this was priceless. "Che. I came to find you."

"And now that you have found us, what do you wish of us?"

Finally. "To fight," he repeated.

"You cannot. You are too weak. Your spirit pressure flows from you without control." To make the point, he leaned in a little harder. Kenpachi growled but otherwise didn't react when one of his ribs finally gave. He could let go of the hilt, get both his shoulders behind it -

"Though it is significant," the shadow noted softly. "I imagine he is very thin indeed."

"Skeletally," the bucket replied.

The shadow was blind. He couldn't see.

But maybe the cripple could still fight. He was a captain, after all.

And he was right. If he couldn't even cut this guy, winning this fight was out of the question. But letting 'em take Yachiru –

Well, hadn't he been planning to leave her anyway? Hadn't she been wanting into that academy? They'd just said 'give her an education.' That was probably what that meant.

They were givin' her exactly what she wanted. To be a shinigami.

"What is your name?"

He stared at the shadow. So this was what he needed to be. This was the top of the list. If he could get strong enough to defeat these two, he could defeat any of the captains. They were strong, but they weren't unbeatable.

He just needed to get a little stronger. Just needed to be able to cut them.

"Zaraki's - Kenpachi."

Zaraki was the name of the province she'd left him in. Probably figuring he couldn't make his way back here. He didn't remember why, or if she'd even told him. He didn't remember much about her but her back, her back and her eyes. He wasn't sure she'd even said goodbye, but he remembered watching her walk away.

Yachiru had left him there.

He'd been too weak to follow her. Probably just a baby then. But he'd gotten stronger. He'd scrapped and bitten and fought until one day he'd found a boy that was stronger than he was. Much stronger. A boy with a knife, aknife that could cut souls. He'd done the best he could, but the other boy was stronger. He'd been knocked to the ground, his hands outstretched to try to block that cutting blade –

And he'd found that he'd blocked the attack with a blade. It had come out of nowhere.

Once he'd gotten that zanpaktou, everything had changed. He'd gotten stronger by leaps and bounds. He'd left the 80th district, heading back to the center of everything. At first with the intent to find her, then with the intent to find decent opponents, and finally because a little pink-haired baby said she wanted to be a shinigami.

Yachiru had, in a way, led him right back to Yachiru.

She had to be here. He knew he was strong. He was almost as strong as these captains, the strongest. He would be the strongest someday. If all the strong souls were born in this white castle, that meant he had been born in this white castle. Born and taken to the farthest point by Yachiru.

He'd become the strongest because of her. He knew he'd have to travel a long way to get to her. Hated that he was too weak to follow her. He was going to get stronger and stronger, so that he was never too weak to follow her again. Never so weak that she would leave him.

He had been a weak little soul, born into a place that only accepted the strong. That was why she had abandoned him there. There in the roughest part of Rukongai.

To get stronger.

And Yachiru had brought him back.

He had to be strong enough. Had to.

"Kenpachi?" the bucket repeated. "I'm afraid that title is taken."

Kenpachi felt his face curl into a snarl. "That so?"

"The eleventh division taichou has claimed it," the shadow replied.

Kenpachi grinned ferally. "Then bring him out here and I'll claim it back."

"You would die," the bucket said reproachfully, shifting slightly so those hidden amber eyes inside could pierce him. "Surely even now you see this truth."

"KEN-CHAN!"

Kenpachi didn't glance her way again, but the very sound grated the bones in his ears. She was scared. Not of being hurt or killed, he knew that. The shinigami had told her that they were taking her away.

She was scared that he was going to leave her.

Hadn't that been the general idea?

He hated his uncertainty. Dammit. Why did he have to stop and think about this shit?

"What will you do now?" the bucket asked bluntly. The wind their reiatsu made was tugging at the threads unraveling from the gash in the white overcoat. And there was another shadow on the wall.

Dammit.

"Get stronger," he growled. No point in hiding it. Better that they knew he'd come back. Better that they prepared. Then it would be a more even fight. Then they'd be ready for him.

And he'd be ready for them. All of 'em.

"You can do that here," the bucket noted.

The shadow didn't turn his head, but his calm expression changed ever so slightly. "Komamura-"

"I was hated and feared," the bucket murmured, "because of what I appeared to be instead of what I really was. If Yamamoto-sama could give me a chance, I do not see why we should not do the same for this one."

"I believe in this case, appearances are more than skin deep," the shadow responded, with a hint of . . . something.

Something dangerous.

Kenpachi grinned into those blind eyes.

"I will put my trust into Yamamoto-sama to decide that," the bucket replied.

After a very long pause, the shadow finally nodded his assent, once. "Very well."

What the fuck?

And suddenly the great weight was lifted, and his zanpaktou was released.

Just like that.

"She is very fond of you," the bucket said, extending his hand downwards. "It remains to be seen if you deserve that affection."

Kenpachi stared at the hand with derision. God, these guys were stiff. He got to his feet, refusing to acknowledge the pain in his chest, and after a moment, the bucket withdrew his offer of assistance.

"I ain't interested in becoming a shinigami."

"I heard you the first time," the bucket replied. "Reconsider. What is most important? To become stronger? Or to salve your pride, little Kenpachi?"

Kenpachi stared at the bucket, and it stared back. The shadow never shifted. They stood in the slight breeze their reiatsu was kicking up, and regarded one another.

Get trained up like the losers he'd sent packing here.

Go to some stupid class like a kid. Learn that bullshit 'kidou.' Bury souls.

Well, at least the killing Hollows part had some appeal. So long as there were actually strong Hollows somewhere.

Become stronger.

Strong enough to defeat them.

Strong enough for Yachiru.

The little brat's muffled cries were just that, muffled by those huge white walls.

What if she wasn't in there?

What if he'd come all this way, and Yachiru wasn't there? What if he couldn't find her?

What would he do if he did?

What if he wasn't strong enough?

The bucket and the shadow turned, showing him their backs, and started to walk away.

Walking back in there. Without a word.

He watched them a moment, then propped his forgotten zanpaktou on his shoulder and followed them.

They said nothing, and he said nothing. The white walls got closer and closer, and then they were at the gate. A huge, hulking . . . man, he guessed, without a shinigami's uniform and sporting an axe almost as big as the grey-haired shinigami girl stood inside the gate, bowing deeply to the captains. When he looked up and caught sight of Kenpachi, they eyed one another a moment.

"KEN-CHAN!"

There was a sudden blur of pink, and then frantic little hands were clinging to the back of his thin shirt.

He broke eye contact with the gate guard, glancing down and to his right at an angle that made his neck ache familiarly. His ribs were still creaking grouchily, but it wasn't too bad. He'd live.

And get stronger.

Huge, teary eyes were staring at him imploringly, and if anything, her grip on him tightened.

"Ken-chan! They were gonna . . . and you were out there –"

He shook his head, taking a good look around. White buildings and red shingles, as far as the eye could see. This seemed to be one of the main entrances, they'd entered a grand courtyard of sorts with bushes and fountains and, most importantly, shinigami.

The guy with the bar tattoo and the grey-haired woman were standing off to one side. Shuuhei? was looking at the shadow like he expected the guy could see him, and oddly, the blind captain just nodded once. The weaker shinigami frowned slightly, but took his hand off his zanpaktou's hilt and stepped back. The grey-haired girl was trying to reach for his bitten hand, and he was doing a good job of not giving it to her, staring at Kenpachi instead.

It was a disapproving sort of look. He grinned.

Maybe there was a way to become a captain without having to go to pansy school. Maybe he could just challenge his way up.

The little pink-haired girl on his shoulder sniffled loudly, and wiped her face noisily on her too-short sleeve.

He sighed.

"Che, Yachiru. You didn't think I was gonna leave you here without sayin' nothin', didja?"

Fin

**Author's Note**: Yes, I know. More fluff. Admit it. You smiled. It counts as humor, darnit!

I've pretty much answered most of my questions, so if you have any more that need to be addressed, please leave a comment and tell me so! (Wasn't that a nice, subtle way of asking for feedback? ;) Thank you guys so much for all your comments, help, and support!


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